


Iron and Gold

by OneWhoTurns



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fairy Tale Curses, Loss of Agency, Shapeshifting, ambiguous fantasy setting, faerie fruit/fairy fruit, holly black influences, weak M rating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoTurns/pseuds/OneWhoTurns
Summary: Ever since she was a child Emily had been cautioned: beware the fae. She’d heard the typical warnings – faerie rings, wishing wells, mysterious lights in the darkness. But they were just cautionary tales...A Dishonored Fae AU based onIron Moon's answers to this fandom ask meme.





	1. Ten Years Ago

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the brainstorming for this whole fic was done with the help of Iron Moon who was very nearly a co-author until I got impatient and cranked out several pages in a short amount of time and then just kept writing. She is still the go-to for discussing plot points, and - let's be honest - probably the only one following along as I post over on Tumblr. This is also HEAVILY influenced by Holly Black's work, and I definitely borrowed some of the faerie mythos from her worlds, as well as kinda yolo-ing it for other world-specific myths and things.

“I… I need help.”

He’d wandered into the wrong glade if he was hoping for charity.

If he’d wanted something sweet and kind he’d do better bringing milk to the toadstool rings on twilit hills. Not coming empty-handed to the foxfire ring in the deep forest.

“And why should I help you?”

The man flinched at the faerie’s voice, the sound of snapping twigs and scraping rock and howls on moonless nights. But he straightened his back, for all he trembled - and the watcher realized it wasn’t fear that made him shake, but pain. Fresh welts peeked from beneath clothes that may have been fine quality before months of wear and tear. Blood crusted cracked fingernails - on those fingers where the nails remained - and bruises ringed neck and wrists. Burns were visible on his chest and shoulders. The man’s jaw was tight, eyes sunken and heavy, but he forced himself to speak through a ragged throat.

“I’m willing to- to make a deal.”

With the glamour wrapped around him, shrouding him in darkness, a figure seeming built of shadows, the watcher stepped from between blackened oaks. 

This was his place. In the darkest part of the forest, where vines choked the ground and lichen devoured charred and petrified tree trunks. A place where battle had raged ages ago, that even now bore those scars. A place - a creature - abandoned by other fae, forced from their society, left to settle in the most desolate of liminal spaces: here he reigned. An outsider. A watcher. The sole witness to all of Faerie.

“What is it you seek?”

“I need-”

The outsider saw how the man clutched something in his hand, and found his lips curling in amusement. A small iron nail. As though something so small could do more than scratch at something as vast as himself. The man’s eyes were determined, even as the watcher felt the fear on him.

“They took my daughter.”

A tortured father, then. If nothing else, it was intriguing.

“You want them dead?”

The human hesitated, then shook his head.

The watcher felt surprise lifting his brows. “No? You’d see them live after all they’ve done to you?”

A stubbled chin jutted stubbornly. “I’ll see them justly punished. Whatever that entails.” There was a fire in the man’s dark eyes, but he quickly shook his head, trying to remember his purpose. “I know what I need to do. I just need the power to do it. I thought… I thought we might make a pact.”

It wouldn’t be the first time the faerie had gifted some of his power. It ebbed and flowed through him, channeled out to those who’d given up enough of themselves for him to deem it a fair trade. Some were even still alive, despite the odds.

Shadows seemed to draw back, and its sharp eyes surveyed the father with a surprisingly gracious smile. The words that snaked through the clearing were low, a buzz of flies and rattle of hanging bones. “And what will you offer in return?”

The watcher spotted the noticeable bobbing of the man’s throat as he swallowed hard. His voice was hoarse, desperate: “Tell me what you want.”

The shadows coalesced, shifting to a figure more familiar, more comforting for the human to look upon. A young man, raven-haired and golden-eyed, pale enough that he might even glow in the darkness. He was of a height with the father, though his naked chest bore none of the scars or welts of the man before him. His smile was gentle, perhaps even sympathetic, all angles smoothed by glamour, and his words dripped with honey. “A child for a child.”

The man balked. “I can't-” He stopped himself, and the watcher saw the set of his stance as he seemed to remind himself of his own necessity. After a brief internal struggle, he cleared his throat. “...Fine. I’ll bring you a child.”

The faerie shook his head, teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Not just any child.”

He watched as the human’s face passed through confusion, reluctance, skepticism, but the man said not a word.

“Your next-born child. You deliver them here to me on the night of their birth. On that condition, I will assist you until your mission is completed.”

There was pain in the man’s expression, and it seemed to hurt him to shake his head.

“I can grant you access to abilities few mortals can even imagine. You will walk in the skin of beasts. You will travel in the space between seconds. You will summon creatures to destroy your enemies. Power. _Magic._ ”

He could sense the cogs turning behind the man’s forehead. _My wife won’t want another child,_ he’d be thinking, _We’ll do all we can to avoid having one._ How quickly he’d forget those thoughts on a cold winter night.

Fingers like stone opened in a beckoning hand. “In return: your next born child. If you do not bring them to me, I will come retrieve them. Which - I assure you - you will not like.” The watcher found that this skin, this image, as seemingly vulnerable as it was, made a singularly trustworthy figure. As if they thought they might trick something that appeared so fallible - so human. So it was no surprise to see the small shift in the father’s form as he let go a touch of tension, and placed his scarred hand out before him.

Spotless hands covered the scars, wrapping the hand tight, and the father winced. When the deed was done, the deal made, the figure melted away, fading into a smoke that seemed to soak straight into the ground. And all that remained was a mark on scarred skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still a work in progress and as such may be edited at random intervals, I'll try to mention in notes when I make changes to previous chapters. 
> 
> I'm having a LOT of fun writing this AU, but I haven't gotten a ton of feedback over on Tumblr, so any comments are welcome and appreciated! Also, if you're interested: [the playlist for this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5rMk09OCTxW_GPA21rlXQVrntqL37kHQ)


	2. The Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted in a sort of serialized manner over on [my Tumblr](http://onewhoturns.tumblr.com/), where each chapter was broken into three or four sections. Given the wip-status of this project, I've decided to keep the divisions for now within each chapter.

Ever since she was a child Emily had been cautioned: beware the fae. She’d heard the typical warnings -- faerie rings, wishing wells, mysterious lights in the darkness. But they were just cautionary tales, names of people she’d never met, stories about a land where things were so beautiful they would drive men mad. She’d never known a family that thought itself to have a changeling. She’d never spotted a brownie dusting up the corners of the castle. No faerie-gifted musicians or craftsmen had ever taken work in the royal palace.

When she was ten - when her mother was murdered - things changed. Years later Emily struggled to remember that day-- those _months_. People grabbing her, pulling her away as she screamed for her mother, watching glassy eyes that stared unblinkingly to the sky, fingers digging into her shoulders as she shrieked and wailed. Some time - days? weeks? - locked up in a room with only masked jailers to bring her sustenance. Losing herself in daydreams of how her mother was fine, and how she’d have every guard and soldier and knight in the kingdom looking for her daughter, how Corvo would come for her. Every time she heard swords clashing she’d imagine it was him, on the warpath to come rescue her. But it never was. Then she’d been moved.

She’d been kept… somewhere. Somewhere dark and smoky and filled with bawdy laughter, abrasive voices, and sounds that were something between pain and pleasure. Later she’d learned the truth of it: five months, sequestered in a brothel. She’d stopped waiting for rescue, started to attempt escape. Every time, she was caught. At first they merely chastised her, locked her back up in her little room, withheld supper, put out the fire in her hearth, left her in the cold and the dark. But once some time had passed, they grew bolder. She hated to remember it. She’d been born a princess, well-loved, coddled, never having felt the sting of skin on skin, the bruising _thwap_ as gaudy jewelry added weight to a scolding. She’d learned to lie, to hide, to steal, and fake docility when she could. Wide brown eyes had shown fear enough to know how to ape it. And if she stared at the floor they wouldn’t see when anger flared in her gaze.

Then he _had_ come. Corvo Attano. Her father. The man who’d sired the Bastard Princess. He’d been changed, hardened by whatever had kept him away for nearly half a year, but he’d held her and she’d been strong for him, never crying, not once, not until she was safe in the tavern on the wrong side of the river. Plague ran rampant in the streets while she obediently took her dose of elixir with the rest of the loyalist conspiracy, sitting through boring lessons that nevertheless were a relief after months of loneliness. She had friends again - though later she’d realize most weren’t true friends, just adults who’d tolerate her until they could take power in her name. The same as those who’d taken her the first time, who’d killed her mother. Only this time they tried to kill her father. One day he was there, celebrating a victory over the usurpers, and then he’d stumbled away and she’d been shuffled into a waiting carriage, weak and sick to her stomach, feeling far too frail for a ten year old. Years later she wondered if she’d just imagined the screams under the clop of hooves as she’d been driven away, delirious, Callista’s face pale and pinched and arms wrapped too tight around her -- if the blood on Havelock’s hands was just a specter.

Surely, compared to humans, the fae could be no worse.

But when she’d finally been reunited with her father - when Havelock was dead, when the bodies of the former conspiracy were burned - she’d suddenly been well again. And he’d been even more insistent about protecting her from _all_ things. Including - perhaps _especially_ \- faeries. Every door had iron nails or bars, as did her bedroom windows. She didn’t even remember which side was the proper side for stockings that were only ever worn inside out. Every meal was salted, every pocket filled with herbs or berries, bells sewn onto her slippers. She wore an adder stone on a cord around her neck. Her childhood outings were all closely chaperoned, if she was even allowed to leave the castle. The vast majority of her time was spent kicking her heels against a throne far too big for a child as Corvo conducted most of her business for her with the help of a council of lords, or - the highlight of her days - training. Her father promised she would never be helpless again. And if it took hours of physical conditioning, of swordplay and grappling and free-running and endless tests on outwitting a foe, she rarely complained.

By the time she was fifteen, then sixteen, she’d mastered the art of being a rebellious teenager. The bells left her slippers, became a bracelet that she slipped off regularly. She’d learned the best time to sneak out of her rooms, the best routes to avoid night guards, and the best way to manipulate her father into leaving her alone long enough for her to slip away. If she got caught, she’d learned early how to fake shame and obedience. Steadily she grew more and more confident-- more and more reckless. Soon she could walk the ramparts of the castle, ducking out of guard patrol paths in the nick of time, slipping into the guards’ barracks, swapping soldiers’ gear with their fellows’ until they tittered about mischievous fae themselves. It made Emily grin, until her father took to salting every entrance to her room. Eventually she stopped her mischief. It was too much of a hassle, carefully sweeping the lines of salt back into place after each outing.

Suitors clamored after her hand. She was charming, sociable (if perhaps a bit eccentric). She was witty and sharp and had all manner of noble sons and daughters eating out of the palm of her hand. All too aware of the baggage her mother’s impropriety had carried (she knew some conservatives still called her the Bastard Princess behind her back) she never took beaux. For all her giggles and batted eyelashes, she was exceptionally chaste.

The coronation - far later than most nobles found appropriate - came the week after her seventeenth birthday, and then came her first royal progress. If her procession of hosts found any of her faerie-warding habits odd, they didn’t dare mention it. If a couple rowan berries tumbled from her pockets, they followed her example in ignoring it, and were soon swept up by some light but engaging conversation. A few observant young ladies in the kingdom even took to wearing stones around their necks as well; if the Queen wore it, it was in fashion.

Yet for all her father’s insistence and warnings, she only found herself more curious about the fae than ever. In each city they visited, at every fiefdom, she found herself making subtle inquiries of the locals, of the legends, if there was any truth in them. She learned of exiled witches, of magic ponds, of bowers full of otherworldly songs, of missing children and forest revels and ill-made bargains that left half-cursed townsfolk in their wake. For the first time in her life, she met people who’d borne true witness to faerie magic. The man who could weave the finest fabrics in the kingdom even as his blood dyed every yard in a rainbow of colors. The well that could cure any disease of its townsfolk, in the village where a child disappeared every seven seasons. The Duke who’d died alone in his estate, surrounded by gold that turned to dust as it crossed the threshold, gorged on shimmering fruit and wine that whispered sweet music.

She shivered delightedly at every eerie story, even as Corvo frowned and shot worried glances her way. Time after time she reassured him that she was safe, that he’d taught her well, that she took every possible precaution and had spent hours crafting words that might extricate her from any fae encounter. She’d turn out her pockets, jingle her bracelet, lift the adder stone from her neck-- anything to remind him that he’d done his due diligence, she was more equipped to handle the fae than any seventeen - and soon eighteen - year old needed to be.

The final stop of the royal progress was, at Corvo’s order, held at the Boyle estate not far from the royal palace. As long as Emily could remember, he’d held a grudge against the ladies Boyle. And burdening them with the expense of hosting the progress was the perfect way to backhandedly honor the old family. On Emily’s end of things, the Boyle estate was perfect: right on the edge of the forest, full of ramparts and shadowy corners she might be able to sneak away to (if she was careful), and the Boyle’s were wealthy enough that the final night, the night of her eighteenth birthday, was sure to be a affair to remember.

She was entirely too correct.

* * *

_At this rate, I won’t even_ want _to sneak away._

The feast of the night was - apparently - to be held outdoors, lit by paper lanterns strung between tents, and candelabras that bordered on garish. While the common folk caroused around bonfires, the nobility would sit at tables decked in gilded ivy drinking wine, dancing, suffering through formal introductions and - for Emily - trying to ignore her father’s overprotective gaze. She supposed his worry was logical, given his obsession with fae. It was the last day of the Mummers’ Feasts, after all. The time where the veil between worlds was thin, workers rested from their harvest, and left offerings and held raucous celebrations to appease the fae and keep in their good graces. If there was ever a day for Corvo to be paranoid, this seemed appropriate. Still, his constant stare was bound to get irritating.

But she didn’t try to ignore _every_ gaze. As the sun set, as mists filled the forest, held off by the burning lanterns, and the echo of laughter drifted over from beyond the nobles’ fête, Queen Emily Kaldwin I entered their final feast looking resplendent. Even _she_ found herself fascinated by the shifting shadows in her golden gown (one she couldn’t bring herself to feel disgusted by, even knowing it was dyed with the poor old weaver’s blood) - subtle hints of burning pink and yellow-green and a periwinkle blue that appeared and disappeared leaving just a doubtful memory that they’d been there to begin with. It was like butterfly wings; iridescent, intricate, and just slightly otherworldly. She loved it.

An hour in, Emily’s cheeks were flush with wine and revelry, her delicate golden crown knocked slightly askew in her enthusiastic gestures and lively chatter. She squeaked and giggled as one of the noble sons in her circle looped his arm around her waist, sweeping her out onto the dance floor, and as she heard steel drawing from a sheath she glared at her father, making it clear that her protestations were entirely in good fun and _will you just relax for a minute?  
_

It was a _celebration_. If common people could forget about formality and custom, why couldn’t she? For someone so scared of the fae, he should be the most eager to do all he could to make them happy. And that meant three days of dancing, drinking, and indulgence. But of course the expectations were different for nobility. As villagers built massive bonfires and stayed up all hours throwing parties worthy of the fae, stirring up mischief and performing bawdy plays, the nobility only had nights off. Days were focused on calculating and arranging provisional stores for their people, preparing for the coming winter. Which, for Emily, meant sitting through lists of livestock and harvest estimations, trade briefings and proposals, and verifications of taxes. Horribly, horribly boring.

So if she wanted to spend the last night of Feasts - her _birthday_ \- enjoying herself with other young court nobles, she was damn well going to do it.

The force of her annoyance seemed to have the intended effect, as she saw how her father’s shoulders slumped in a sigh as he turned his back, shifting his attention to the rest of the room.

With not a small amount of self-satisfaction, she let herself focus on the dance, twirling and laughing as a pretty blonde soon cut in to steal her away from her former partner, the girl’s eyes bright with admiration as the queen grinned at her. The Mummers’ Feasts had the best dances; songs that would never be played in stuffy formal affairs were struck up joyfully - even in noble circles like this. Songs that made a heart beat just a bit harder, feet twirl just a bit faster, lips smile just a bit wider. None of the coarse lyrics that would be sung to the same melody in the streets, but a wild beat nonetheless.

It was as she glanced away from her next partner, taking in the rest of the party, that she spotted him. An unfamiliar young man. She may not have noticed him, had he not been staring. Dressed well, but not extravagantly, with hair blacker than any she’d seen in the whole kingdom of Gristol. He wasn’t of the local nobility, she was certain. Perhaps visiting from a neighboring kingdom? No, surely someone would have informed her of such a thing. She ignored her partner to watch the man carefully, curiously, wondering what it was about him that so intrigued her. He was beautiful, in a sharp kind of way. Like a well-crafted sword. But what was it--

She felt the glint off his eyes like a reflection on silver-- no, _gold_. How could she know from so far away? But she _did_ know it, like she saw her own dress she knew his eyes were even more gold than that. _Fae-touched?_

As the idea popped into her head, she saw his lips lift slightly in a small smile before he turned to move through the crowd.

Quickly, she found a way to extricate herself from her partner, from the dance floor, and tried to slip away through the partygoers. It was difficult. Only once she’d pulled off her crown and wrapped herself in a borrowed cloak was she able to escape the feast, moving away from the glow of the lanterns to the shadow of a cloistered walkway, sure she’d seen the man come this way.

 _There_. A shift in the shadows ahead, heading toward the dimly lit archway leading away from the gathering, out toward the forest. Her heart thudded loudly as she moved faster, not quite running but walking purposefully in silent slippers, skirts and crown held tight in her hands as she spotted another brief glimpse of him as passing through the exit and out into the mist-filled darkness.

By the time she made it to the archway and looked out on the dark grass lit by hazy moonlight, there was only a distant shadow rounding the other side of the building. She scanned around her, but only spotted far-off bonfires. And in the forest--

She lifted a hand to where the adder stone was tucked beneath the neckline of her gown, suddenly and begrudgingly glad for all of her father’s precautions as she watched the soft flicker and pulse of light glowing from somewhere just inside the tree line. Her curiosity tickled at her even as she knew following strange lights could only lead to folly.

She wondered who would go missing tonight.

* * *

“If I may?”

Before she could protest, the young lord stepped away. Emily’s eyes narrowed at the man who took his place, though she accepted his hand on her back without comment. He said not a word, and his silence was intriguing. She studied him carefully as they danced.

His clothes were well-tailored, if a few years out of fashion, but there was something unsettling about them. It took her a moment staring at his shoulder before she realized -- the cloth was so pitch black, light died on it. Even as they made a turn around the dance floor, passing under lanterns, there was no reflection. It was as though he wore a hole in the world, with only small dots of gold or black thread (but not _black_ black, not nearly as dark as the fabric itself) giving shape to the void. Her hand drifted down from his shoulder a few inches until she touched an area free of stitching, and she felt as though she should be able to reach into the emptiness, yet the resistance proved his solidity.

She saw the way his lips curved at her curious touch, and quickly placed her hand back in its proper place. Still, he stayed silent. Now her eyes traced his face, looking for-

He _was_ familiar.

One year ago, exactly. A night not so different from this. The last night of the Mummers’ Feasts, the last night of her royal progress; the night she’d turned eighteen. The feast tonight was in the palace gardens instead of another noble estate, the music a bit less vibrant, the whole party with a less excitable aura than was befitting a Feast. Underwhelming.

But he wasn’t like the rest of her surroundings. Cheekbones slightly too sharp, eyes that gleamed gold… He’d disappeared so quickly before. She’d thought he may have been fae-touched then, taken as she was with eyes like polished amber. Now, though… Her brow furrowed, wondering who he was, why he was here, what it was about him that--

For an instant, his eyes shifted. The white became black, the gold molten honey, and Emily fumbled her steps in alarm. His hold tightened, keeping her on her feet, smirking, but still he said nothing.

He was not human, of that she was now sure.

Emily’s gaze darted to the outskirts of the party, where she knew a boundary of salt was drawn. “How did you-”

Lips split into a grin that glinted in the lamplight. “Not everyone stuffs their pockets with berries. An amenable guest was easy to find.”

She pursed her lips, her theory confirmed, and wanted to check to make sure her pockets were, indeed, full, but he held her hand firmly, and she didn’t want to make a scene. Instead her fingers dug into the impossible fabric. She shouldn’t be dancing with him. She knew the stories, how humans could be swept up in a faerie revel and dance until their feet bled -- or until they died of exhaustion. But she didn’t feel any giddiness. Her mind was as sharp as ever, if abuzz with questions and curiosities.

“I’ve seen you before.” She pulled her gaze from his eyes to examine the rest of his face, looking for other signs of difference. His skin was smooth and clear, eerily poreless, and there was none of the pink flush that colored her own cheeks after hours of drinking and dancing. He didn’t respond. She met his eyes once more - sensing his thin smile - and it took Emily a moment to realize she hadn’t even asked a question. “Why are you here?”

She didn’t need to think as they moved, making another smooth round of the dance floor, and she imagined a different song above the notes of the nearby musicians. Something floating from afar, coaxing her, something ringing with light and shadow and a beauty that couldn’t be found in the mortal world.

“Your people don’t celebrate as they should.”

It wasn’t an answer to her question, and she frowned as she attempted to ignore the other song drifting through the air.

“In the village they burn high fires. They wear masks and spend all night shrieking and laughing. Your nobility does no such thing. You gather among yourselves - your fires are tame, your focus on politicking and trade.”

His voice was low and smooth, and when she glanced to the other dancers she found their focus passing over her, glassy, as though the two of them were merely space in the air that must be left empty.

“This is no way to spend the Feasts. Don’t you wish to celebrate? To revel with your true face hidden? To watch the bonfire spit sparks into the air and dance through the smoke?”

 _Yes_. Of course she did. Still, Emily shook her head. “So you’ve come to lecture me on the faults of noble party planning?” Her tone was light, casual - polite despite the sardonic nature of the question.

His smile was unnatural, though she couldn’t say why. Again, she felt like there was something hidden from her, like the shift of black in his eyes. “No.”

She raised her eyebrows at the ensuing silence, expecting him to clarify. Instead, they just danced. Sweeping steps and delicate turns, and she had to admit he was very good at it. As the song drew to a close, his words were spoken quietly - so quietly she had to lean in to him to hear.

“Next year, I would like to avoid the complications of an intermediary. _If you would be so kind_.”

Her mind was still processing the words, their chillingly playful lilt, as he sent her twirling away with a flourish that made her dizzy, and by the time she’d gotten her balance, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think? I'm always looking to hear what hits/misses, if you want to leave a comment.


	3. An Offer

Emily stared out into the dark. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew he was there. Waiting for her. If she looked hard enough, perhaps she could spot that glint of gold-

"Your Majesty."

Warm brown eyes snapped in surprise to the servant now bowing low before her, offering out a platter of bite-sized morsels. Emily frowned, lifting the pale plaster mask to her eyes once more. So much for keeping her 'true face hidden.' It was of no use, anyway. For all she'd wanted to take the stranger's advice, to bring the customs of the people to the nobles' Feast, at least the idea of losing track of who she was was entirely impossible. Even with a wreath of white flowers in place of a crown, the palace had adamantly refused her wish for a simpler garment. She'd convinced them to forgo gaudy jewels or gold, but still her dress twinkled with beaded flowers. She gathered her white cloak around her, hiding the flash of glass beads, as though it might make the servant forget her identity. Picking out a slice of gilded apple she popped it between her lips, and daintily took a small marzipan rose with a slight bob of thanks.

Sending another tentative glance out toward the distant tree line, Emily sighed and turned on a silk-slippered toe. After a carefully planned campaign of attrition, she'd managed to convince the chamberlain to allow for less formal customs. The bonfire that sparked into the night sky was small, but at least it was present, sitting between the high table and the wide expanse that served as a dance floor. Musicians had been brought it to play lively tunes that had even some older nobles smiling and kicking up their heels in a dance. One of the fountains of the garden area had been filled with wine. Emily padded quietly around the outer edge of the floor, watching the grins and bursts of laughter from the partygoers, and smiled. Overall, it felt at least moderately acceptable for a fae offering.

She turned her head slightly, feeling a cool autumn breeze rustling delicate sprigs of baby's breath in her dark hair. She heard... something. Like... Like wind through an open hallway -- not quite a whistle and not quite a roar, but something hollow and resonant.

The hedge maze had long been a part of the palace. When she was young she was terrified of it, the high walls seeming to hem her in. Once she hit her teenage years, she relished a chance to lead an unsuspecting guard in to get lost as she navigated her way expertly. Now, as she turned toward it, she already knew what she’d see.

He didn’t wear a mask, like most of her guests, but his eyes were covered with a thick ashy stripe of coal-like pigment, making golden eyes stand out all the more. He looked as he had that first night. Almost entirely human. Just the shine of his gaze making her skin crawl - not unpleasantly. Again, clad all in black, this time shrouded in sharp feathers that picked up hints of blue and bronze in the light from the moon and the fire. There was something _too beautiful_ about him.

He held out a hand to her, silent again, though his brows lifted in invitation.

Emily looked back to the rest of the party. Her father was at the high table. Blinded by the light of the bonfire. Her gaze returned to the stranger. She _knew_ this maze. For all she went stocking-less, it wasn’t like some will-o-the-wisp was taking her through an unfamiliar forest. She’d spent years learning every twist, turn, and dead end. And he was _there_. Or, it seemed he would be. Offering a hand instead of a fleeting shadow to follow. She wouldn’t get lost.

With one final glance to the party, a quick pat at her pockets to ensure the loose berries and salt that filled them, she surreptitiously shifted her cloak, turning it inside out so the dark forest green might help her sneak away. He didn’t run off, didn’t pull away as she approached tentatively, instead lifting his lips in a smile. ...It wasn’t a _kind_ smile, not exactly.

Clutching her cloak at her breast with one hand, she slipped the other into his, and stepped into the maze. All that was left, as she followed him away, was a white plaster mask tossed to the ground, painted warm tones in the light of the fire.

* * *

He never spoke, she observed distantly as they walked just slightly faster than meandering, her escort seeming to know exactly where he was going. His face was expressive, smile small and disconcertingly polite, but he made no attempt to speak a word. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from him. The moon turned his hair a rich blue black even as it bleached every creamy fold and glittering flower of her dress white. Her breath was calmer than it probably should have been, watching how his fingers just barely supported her hand, a delicate whisper of skin on skin that felt effervescent.

It took her a moment to realize they’d slowed, but when she finally looked away from him she blinked in surprise. She’d walked this maze hundreds of times. She knew the perfect path to the center, and it wasn’t the way they’d gone. They’d taken a roundabout circuit on the outer edges, just avoiding dead ends, but where they stood now should’ve been the end of the line. They’d need to backtrack and take a left if they wanted to get on a path that might reach the center. This _should_ have been a dead end. But it wasn’t.

“This- this wasn’t here before.” Her voice was a low, fascinated murmur as she dropped his hand to examine the edges of the greenery, wondering if they might be jagged or sharp -- but it was as though they’d been trained and pruned like the rest of the maze. As though it had been this way all along. But now there was an exit to the lawn that Emily was almost positive hadn’t been there the last time she’d entered the maze.

As before, her voice made him grin wide enough to show teeth. “You’re sure?"

Had it been added in the last two months? She supposed it was possible. Still, she frowned her confusion. “I…” Her voice trailed off as she walked through the space where there should have been hedge, releasing the grip holding her cloak tight around her so she might trace the other side of the bush with questing fingers. “I _thought_ I was,” she admitted, glancing down the wall of greenery. The rest looked almost accurate. Only… how much further had they gone? The maze had never been so close to the tree line before. Now it felt like it stretched well into the lawn. Turning to face the forest, Emily hissed as a finger caught on a thorn-like protrusion in the hedgerow, grabbing her hand to watch the tiny drop well black in the moonlight before she quickly popped it into her mouth. The salt in her blood sharpened her mind, and suspicion began to nibble at her. She turned her back to the woods, staring at the man who still watched her with open curiosity. She felt silly, a finger in her mouth, and quickly removed it, tucking it into her pocket and wincing as salt stung at the wound.

“You’re… You…” How exactly was one supposed to address a faerie? She quickly dipped a small curtsey, not knowing what else to do. “I-” She was at a loss for words. They appreciated honesty, right? All her father’s warnings were swimming in her head and all that came to mind was that she shouldn’t have even gotten to this point. _You’re a faerie_ , she wanted to accuse him, but what good would that do? It wasn’t like he didn’t know.

Before she could think of another word, she felt his hand brushing down her forearm until he took her injured hand in his. She felt heat rising to her cheeks, and focused on keeping her head clear, avoiding the stare she could feel burning into her as he pressed his lips first to the tip of her injured finger, and then to her palm. A tiny chill ran through her hand even as the rest of her heated rapidly, the small pinprick fading away in an instant, the skin closing as though no wound had ever existed there. Emily was thoroughly shaken. Seeing secondhand results of faerie magic was one thing, but _feeling_ it -- she shivered. “Thank you.” The words were out of her mouth before she remembered _not to thank the fae_.

His hand tightened on hers, and she thought she might’ve seen a spark in his eye. “I’ve done you a service, then. You will do me one as well.”

It was a far kinder response than she’d expected - she’d heard stories of fae cursing humans that thought they might dismiss a kind deed with mere words.  “I didn’t mean-” He was pulling her with him now, putting her back to the maze as he lead her-- how had the tree line come so close? It was like they stepped straight from the hedge maze into the shade of the forest, but that wasn’t possible. “I mean, I _am_ grateful, but-”

“You blush.” His observation only made her cheeks redder, and she slipped her free hand into a pocket to touch the rowan berries as she glanced back the way they had come. Now it seemed the maze was far off again. Though they’d _just_ left, it must be several yards away now. “No one has done such a thing for you before?”

Her mind buzzed, trying to sort out what precisely was happening. She didn’t want to offend him. She’d admitted he’d helped her, and now she had to repay him in kind. A question or two seemed fair payment. And then she’d need to either excuse herself or find some way to get him to bring her home. “Magic?” She was distracted, watching the trees, looking for landmarks that could help her find her way back if need be. “No.”

“Not the magic.”

When she glanced at him, there was the slightest touch of mischief on his lips. His fingertips brushed over her hand, thumb pressing in the spot his lips had touched a moment before. “...Oh.” She felt silly and quickly looked back to the trees, trying to walk slower, purposefully stumbling so she might have more time to watch her surroundings. “No,” she admitted, glad to have something to look at besides those eyes. She tripped over her words, her usual eloquence hard to come by when being asked of such topics -- especially while she was _trying_ to keep track of their path, as winding and indirect as it was. “I mean, on the cheek. On the back of the hand. But not-” She faltered, quickly stopping herself. She needed to think like a fae. The least amount of information she could give him that still remained truthful. “Ah- ...Well, no.”

“Nowhere else?”

Again, warmth rushed through her body in a wave. “That’s not-” She only met his gaze for a second - his smile too soft, too beguiling. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Her tone was clipped and she tugged at his hold, pulling them up short, the sudden stop slipping her cloak from one shoulder. “Where are we going?” she demanded.

“You like magic.”

She pursed her lips. Did he ever answer a question straight out? For all the fae couldn’t lie, they could certainly prevaricate better than most humans. Emily frowned. She’d give him one more question, then insist her debt was paid. He wasn’t pulling her on anymore, and she took the moment of rest to grind a slippered toe against the soft earth, watching the ground. “...Well...” Her annoyance was tempered with a touch of embarrassment. “...I mean, of _course_ I do.” She hoped she didn’t sound guilty. Her father wouldn’t be happy to hear her admit to such a thing. But, really- “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Would you like to be able to perform it yourself?”

Her head snapped up. Was he joking? This must be some kind of trick. “You mean…” If he was serious… Something in her chest fluttered like a moth, the possibilities flitting through her head impossibly fast. Her words came out in a whisper. “You mean _I_ could do magic?” The question hung in the air with the soft chirp and croak of nighttime creatures.

He let go of her. It wasn’t like he needed to keep her there, not when he’d just presented such a prize. She wasn’t about to run. “I could grant you some power, yes.”

Emily took a deep breath, cranking her mind to life. This wasn’t a gift. Fae didn’t give _gifts_. They made bargains. _Nothing worth having comes free._ But would it be worth having? Truly? She leveled her eyes at him. “...What’s the catch?”

“There will be a price, of course.”

She flexed her jaw for a moment. Nodded. “Of course.”

“Nothing too dire,” he assured her, his voice lilting. It was like she could feel him draping the calm over her. She wanted to trust him. And the fact that he could make her think that made her uneasy. “A kiss.”

* * *

“...A kiss?” It was too simple, too easy. And such an undeniably fae price. Yet still, Emily wasn’t sure it was something she’d want to give up. Because it would be, as he pointed out-

“Your _first_ kiss.”

She hated that he knew that -- that she’d basically admitted as much to him. She hesitated. A first kiss. Oddly enough, it didn’t seem like an unfair trade, for a fae. They liked precious things. But she had to think strategically. She took her time to consider her questions. “What kind of power? How long would I have it?”

His smile had lost its false reassurance, and she found it a relief to see the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. At least he’d stopped trying to beguile her. “Does it matter?” His gaze had ceased its occasional wandering, settling on her and not even glancing away.

Emily bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. A moment of lips touching lips and she might taste power so far beyond just what she had as Queen. Even if it was only for a few _minutes_ , it would be something few could ever experience. _Real magic_. She just had to work her words well. She blinked a couple times, taking a breath, remembering all she’d been warned of.

“You won’t just-- I need to get a chance to use it,” she insisted. “You can’t freeze me and then take it away.”

“Oh, I assure you; you’ll have a chance to use it.” He barely moved. It was like he didn’t want to scare her off.

Her mind raced, blood feeling too palpable in her veins as adrenaline seemed to spread straight from the marrow of her bones. But words were crucial. She needed clear, unambiguous language. Set terms; clear boundaries.

“What will I be able to do?” Useless abilities ticked off in her head, things that he could gift her with that would be wasted, pointless. If she could suddenly breathe water, but not air. If she had a newfound talent for pipe-playing or embroidery. Frivolous things.

He watched her closely, with eyes that had begun to shift in her vision, sometimes appearing mostly human - a clear and brilliant citrine - and other times pitch black with rich golden irises offering the only touch of light.

In that moment, her fingers itched to bring the adder stone to her eye, to see what he _truly_ looked like, beyond whatever magic he used to hide himself. Something with eyes that dark… Even if he was terrible, it would have to be a magnificent sort of terrible. But that would be incredibly rude. And only a very stupid human would risk offending the fae _twice_ in one night.

His stare was so focused, so intense - boring into her skin - she felt blood rushing to her cheeks once more. Why was he silent? She knew her own long pauses were to consider her words. Was he crafting some kind of trap? Wasn’t this whole thing a trap? That was how they thought, the fae. Minds adept at crafting vicious snares that tricked humans into giving up all manner of precious things. Years of their lives. Children. Memories. _Kisses_.

He just _watched_. Endlessly. His charming air had settled - evolved - become something more subtle. Again she bit her lip, chewing it hard, fingers slipping into her pockets to roll dried berries between them, the grit of salt catching under her nails. It was comforting.

She faltered as his hand came to her cheek, thumb stroking along the poor tortured lip. His words had dropped to a murmur. “If anyone will bruise your mouth tonight, Your Majesty, it will be me.”

Emily felt the burn as her ears went pink, and she wanted to bite down harder - ensure his words would be false - but her teeth slipped to her tongue instead. Muscles tensed in her back as she held herself still, breath frozen in her chest for seconds before he finally dropped his hand. Trying to ignore his assertion, she instead repeated, making a concentrated effort to keep her voice level, “What will I be able to do?”

His lips curled into a smirk. “Enjoy it, I hope.”

It was all she could do to keep eye contact, as much as she wanted to look away. If she hadn’t had all of her charms she wouldn’t have made eye contact in the first place, but the hard pebble-like berries gave her courage, knowing he couldn’t _truly_ enchant her against her will. Not without a pact. A contract. _A faerie bargain_. Again, she ignored his comments on the kiss-- that he seemed _so sure_ she’d agree to. A thought struck her. “You know who I am.” He’d called her _Your Majesty_. She’d never told him her name, not any time they’d met, but he’d clearly been aware. His expression remained unchanged, though there was a slight incline of his head. “Then you know I already _have_ power -- of a sort. What do you offer?”

A sound came, almost like a small huff of laughter. “Ah yes, mortal politics. ...How quaint.”

There was an edge in her voice, strengthened by the thought of her position. “I keep my throne without your magic to help.”

He cocked his head. The look he gave her was… unsettling. As though he knew something she didn’t. She could sense a catch - words not said - something hinting at ‘ _for now_.’ It sent a shiver down her back. It was a threat, if an oblique one. Again he held her gaze, and she tried not to show how much he’d unnerved her.

“...Among other gifts, I offer true sight. If you take my bargain you will - for a time - be capable of feats no mere mortal can perform - be faster, stronger. You will move as shadow when you wish. With a bit of practice you may achieve a faerie glamour.”

Among other gifts?

“And these other gifts… would they harm me?”

“None of these powers will impair you, if that’s what you mean.” His tone had settled to a mellower version of hers. Straightforward. Businesslike. “If you choose to use them recklessly...” He shrugged. “I don’t promise immortality.”

It was tempting. Very tempting. “And I’ll have them for…?”

A small smirk returned to his face. “...Long enough to make a difference.”

Her lips twisted, unable to hide her annoyance. “Longer than a day?”

“Longer than a day,” he agreed.

The thought popped into her head just in time. “I’ll use them here.” The words spilled out, perhaps a bit too hurried, giving away how close she’d been to saying yes. “You won’t take me to-- to wherever it is you’re from.”

“You may use them tonight, even. Right here. On this land and the lands surrounding it - anywhere you happen to find yourself. I will not spirit you away for a mere dabbling in magic.” He was being so specific. Removing the loopholes for her. Like he _wanted_ her to get the better end of the deal.

Her eyes darted between his, hoping she might be able to read _something_. Some kind of intention or trick. Corvo’s warnings echoed in the back of her mind even as black bled over the whites of the faerie’s eyes, at last ceasing their constant shifting. She could sense nothing beyond amusement, curiosity, and something she could best interpret as hunger. Her stomach jolted, remembering tales of fae creatures that could eat a child in one sitting. For all she felt silly for it, she needed to make sure it was covered. “And you won’t-” her face flushed, but she charged on. “-You won’t eat me.”

He laughed. “I don’t intend to eat you. Nor do I wish to kill you.”

That wasn’t good enough, not when her life was in question. “Say you won’t,” she insisted. “Not that you don’t _want_ to. Promise you won’t.”

His smile was amused, but patient. “I will not kill you. I will not eat you. I will not request, command, or otherwise compel others to do so, either.”

She wanted to pester, to make sure he swore it, but she held her tongue. It wasn’t necessary. Asking him to repeat it would only be testing her luck - something she was sure she’d pushed to its limits already. A faerie’s word was their bond, for all their tricky equivocation.

Her heart thudded loudly, running through every point they’d discussed. “...Very well.”

“You consent to the terms of the bargain?” It was strange - he wasn’t too quick to request confirmation, but she sensed he was tamping down some kind of enthusiasm.

She cleared her throat, anxiety gnawing at the pit of her stomach. But what else could she say? Being offered real true fae magic? How could she say no?

“I do.”

* * *

Emily didn’t notice it at first. She assumed the leaves that brushed her slippered feet were just more of the forest floor, overgrown with roots and weeds as it was. It was only when she tried to move toward him that she realized her feet were tangled in ivy. She blinked at them in confusion, and saw them continuing a slow weaving pattern, trapping her there. Startled, she looked to the faerie. “Did you-” She fell silent as he rested his finger on her lips. Not a single word came to her tongue as she watched in dawning awe at the subtle changes taking place.

The glamour - or at least some of it - seemed to melt away. There was no longer any doubt about the _other_ ness of the man before her. One of the few things that didn’t change was his eyes. Gold and black, with thick long lashes that now brushed against skin that was deathly pale, a bluish gray cast to it all, like marble. His feathered cloak dissipated like smoke, the shadows that obscured his figure curled and writhed, and it almost seemed like the white of his chest dripped down over it instead of the darkness retreating. She followed the trickle of skin with her eyes until she caught the slight dip at his waist and quickly averted her gaze before it might go any lower, turning her head away.

Without the sight of him being an immediate distraction, she became more aware of the weaving plants. The ivy that twined around her ankles was too warm for the autumn night, the soft leaves tickling her skin even as she nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot, both hands now digging into the berries in her pockets. For all their thin delicate stems, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to break free of the wrapping vines that still crept higher, spiraling around her calves.

Her tone was framed like a warning as she brought her gaze back to him. “This wasn’t part of the-”

She would’ve been irritated at being hushed - _again_ \- but she was too fascinated. The hand that covered her mouth was not a hand. Or-- it _was_ … in a way. The limb was a matte sooty black all the way up to his elbow, darker ebony veins and vine-like shadows clearly visible on - under? - the skin of his forearm, itself ridged like bark and edged with thorns. Fingers seemed to have cracked and lengthened and sharp talon-like claws now brushed the side of her neck as his palm, soft as the finest ashes, rested against her lips. His skin smelled of charred wood and moss.

He moved a step closer and she realized he still wore shadow, hiding his body from his hips down, a slash of black dragged over his sternum as though coal-covered fingers had scraped down his chest. Something tickled her elbows and she shifted uncomfortably, even as his hand turned, claws running lightly over her cheek and down her chin, parting her lips for the briefest moment before she tensed them closed again, unwilling to look away.

“Emily…”

Goosebumps broke out over her skin as he spoke her name. A name she’d never given him, a name she’d never even heard spoken in his presence -- a name that seemed so comfortable on his tongue.

The points of his claws traced teasingly over the sensitive skin of her neck and shoulders, making her shiver, as he murmured her name again, his eyes wandering over her face. “Sweet innocent Emily.” Echoes of wolves and rain and soft chiming notes wove through his voice, and she knew without her charms she would’ve been lost to enchantment long ago. “Darling naive Emily.”

Her eyes narrowed in annoyance even as she locked her knees to keep from falling as he leaned toward her, his breath making her skin tingle as his hand drew away. She watched his mouth - pale lips, black tongue, teeth slightly too sharp - as he whispered the words.

“Will you seal our contract?”

She’d already agreed to it. But still, she hesitated. It had felt so overwhelmingly in her favor a moment ago. A taste of magic, for a moment of lips on lips. But his words… He called her naive, and she was starting to doubt the word-crafting skills she’d been so sure of before. He knew something she did not.

A black brow raised to remind her of his question.

Before she could argue herself out of it, Emily closed the distance between them, pressing tight lips to his for the briefest moment before pulling away, hands tight fists in her pockets.

He didn’t move. Didn’t come closer, didn’t move away. His mouth curved into a sly smile. “That was not a kiss, Your Majesty.”

She glared. “Yes it was.”

He looked amused, and though he didn’t lift a finger it was as though she could feel his claws trailing down her cheek. “It was a peck, sweet Emily.” He liked saying her name too much. “You’ve pecked others. For this bargain,” he reminded her: “Your _first_ -” the emphasis was just as important as it was on “- _kiss_.”

Her cheeks had flushed to match her lips, half regretting her decision and half unsure how exactly to go about kissing such a creature. But it was clear he wouldn’t do the deed for her.

His chin lifted, almost challenging her, mouth still within reach if she dared, and she wiggled her toes nervously, feeling the slightest strain of the thin vines as her muscles flexed beneath them.

She’d seen people kiss. She knew how it worked. ...At least… she thought she might…

Right. She could do this.

Soft mouth parted, she tentatively brought her face to his again, closing her eyes both to avoid his inhuman stare and because it felt appropriate. She breathed in even as her nose brushed against his, the slightest suction sealing their lips for a fraction of a second. She didn’t intend anything with her tongue - nothing at all - but she couldn’t help it when, in brushing against the seam of her own lips, the tip briefly whispered over his lips as well.

The kiss was slow - gentle - and oddly sincere.

He tasted like honey and ash. Like woodsmoke and nectar and lichen and bone: sweet and earthy and almost eerie. There was nothing light or subtle in it. His mouth was rich and dark and reminded her of the first time she’d had unwatered wine. The first time she’d tasted black tea and cinnamon.

He made no attempt to invade her mouth, though she was sure with the way he shifted his lips over hers that he sought to taste her as well. 

She was tempted to _keep_ kissing him. To wrap her arms around his neck and breathe in his breath. For a moment she loosened her fists, intending to do just that, but the feeling of the berries and salt brought her to her senses. That was the lure of the fae, wasn’t it? They trafficked in temptations. Still-- though she knew better, she lingered.

Emily’s glanced up in surprise as she felt his hands - more human than they’d seemed a moment ago - press gently on either side of her face, and she watched him warily is he pulled away from her lips. With no small amount of self-satisfaction a thumb brushed her temple as he leaned forward and-- She quickly closed her eyes as he pressed a soft kiss onto each eyelid. Another first. But when her eyes opened she realized the significance of the gesture.

She blinked in utter amazement, and somewhat in pain - he was _glowing_. So was most of the forest-- or at least little spots here and there. But in him was something breathtaking. It shifted and surged in golden light like chaos itself, wolf and deer and frog and swan and tree and stone, all things in flux. She held up a hand to shield her eyes from the sight. “What - how are you-”

A hand covered her eyes for a moment, and she felt a pinch, a tightness behind her ears, and when she looked again the effect had mostly faded, leaving just a halo of light around whatever the thing was that stood before her. Her mouth moved wordlessly, unsure what she could possibly say, completely flabbergasted. His lips were still in that reserved smile, something small and secret twisting them. Emily could hardly think. Everything seemed to have happened so fast. Finally she managed to speak, though her words were choked and breathless - dumbfounded.

“What _are_ you?”

The words had barely left her mouth before his face was beside hers again, and she struggled to keep her eyes open at the brush of his nose against her cheek, his breath skittering down her neck like a creeping frost. It chilled her at the same time as warmth flooded her body, and as she lifted her hands reflexively they rested on bare skin. The texture was odd, like rock made flesh, and her fingers couldn’t help their curious brush against him.

Her mind went blank, completely forgetting whatever it was she’d asked, as his lips pressed softly to her cheekbone. For a brief moment she allowed herself to experience it all, eyes closing as she took a deep breath, taking in every scent, sound, and sensation. When his mouth moved first to her temple, then the spot just below her ear, she thought her knees might buckle. But she made no move to pull away, to push him away; no sound of protest passed her lips. And he made no attempt to touch her beyond where his mouth met her skin in the smallest - the lightest - of brushes. It was… oddly polite, she supposed.

Some small part of her wondered if - or perhaps hoped? - he might continue. But his chest drew away, then his lips, and when Emily opened her eyes he was gone and she was left alone, unbound, in a world full of magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh*  
>   
> I did love writing this chapter. What can I say: I'm a sucker for first kisses and romantic mysterious magics.  
>   
> Too florid? Not detailed enough? Let me know your thoughts.


	4. The Usurper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that some new tags have been added.

It was… overwhelming. Everything seemed sharper, brighter, more colorful even in the cool light of the moon. How Emily had stepped from the edge of the forest straight back into the maze she couldn’t _quite_ know, but she no longer had any difficulty believing it. A small smile played at the edge of her lips as the traced awed hands over the hedge rows, seeing the smallest sparks of light where she never would have imagined seeing things before. Even as the moonlight covered everything in blue, every leaf was greener than she’d ever seen it, every bloom more vibrant.

She wanted to just stand and take it all in, soak in the beauty surrounding her -- or maybe sit down. Her head spun, and she wasn’t sure if it was just the sudden rush of wonder this new True Sight brought, or if it was something else. Either way, she should get back to the party. Her father would have an apoplexy if she went missing on their own property. (He’d probably implode if he knew she’d made a fae contract, as well.)

A small giddy laugh passed through her lips as she shook her head, catching tiny flecks of color in the small stones of the maze’s path. It was incredible. Her steps faltered and she lifted a hand to her temple. She was dizzy - a creeping nausea tightening her chest. Maybe she could excuse herself, take an hour to rest and let her body adjust, away from the noise of the--

Emily stopped moving. But… that wasn’t right. She should be hearing music and soft conversation. Clinking glasses, maybe. All she heard was the spitting crackle of flames and a distant peal of harsh laughter.

Scrabbling at the fabric of her dress, she tore into the gauzy outer layer, slipping her hand into the hidden panel of her bodice and drawing out the thin knife sewn alongside the boning against her ribs. Not as good as a sword, but at least she had some kind of weapon. She moved as quietly as she could, every inch closer feeling warmer, making her skin itch even as she tried not to let her head swim.

By the time she reached the last turn, the path was bathed in thick orange light, loud snaps and roars coming from a bonfire far larger than the one she’d left. She adjusted her hold on the knife, flexing and waking her muscles as she took another step. Heat made the air around the fire shimmer, distorting the edges and completely blocking her view of the high table. If there even was a high table left to see. The bonfire had been built up with jagged splinters of wood, pieces of the tables that had held food and drink no more than an hour ago. Or she thought it hadn’t been so long ago… How long had she been gone?

No - no, the candles in their sconces hadn’t yet burned out. It was the same night. But so much had changed…

There were sounds coming from inside the palace, ringing out onto the terrace. Words were lost in echoes and shadowed by the noise of the fire, but bouts of grating laughter cut through it all. Emily felt her limbs trembling even as she tried to force her mind to _focus_ , to keep on her feet, no matter how weak she was starting to feel. Some small part of her was reminded of five months sequestered in a brothel.

She should hide. Maybe she could turn around, go back to the forest, give herself some rest and come back once she didn’t feel so frail.

A shriek pierced through the night air, and Emily’s head shot up. That wasn’t a laugh; that was a scream. She should go to them - this was her palace, these were her people - whoever it was was _her_ responsibility and she was letting them suffer. But-- but her muscles _hurt_. Whatever this power was, it seemed to need some adjusting to. She grimaced as another scream rang out. But she wouldn’t be any help like this. Not when her head was pounding and her stomach rolling. As much as it pained her, she had to retreat.

She sent an anguished look at the entrance to the palace even as she took one step back, then another.

Her feet froze as she heard crunching gravel. Her heart leapt to her throat: she wasn’t alone.

Quickly, quietly, she made one turn and then another, heading away from both the bonfire and the sound of footsteps. She would know this maze far better than any strangers. Ducking around a corner, she held her breath. Her knees shook as she crouched, but she flexed her hands and feet and tried to pretend she didn’t feel as off as she did. Footsteps moved past the entrance to her little offshoot of maze, but didn’t look in. Instead, she heard sounds like cracking wood and shifting rock-- the ground seemed to hum. It was all she could do to stay silent.

It seemed to go on forever, but it must’ve only been a minute or two, and then the footsteps moved back the way they’d come.

Still, Emily didn’t move. Something had changed, something that made her eyes itch. She waited in silence, but no footsteps returned. Finally, her head having slowed its spinning to some degree, she drew herself to her feet.

She could see the tiny specks of light, the ones that made her vision tingle, before she even peeked around the corner, but the reality of it was still shocking. Newly grown branches, roots, greenery had woven itself together into a barrier across the path. Her stomach sank. That was at least a third of the maze cut off from her. She might be able to climb over the obstruction, but examining the gnarled limbs revealed some vicious looking thorns. With how her knees kept wanting to buckle, there was no way she could make it over without at least a few scratches.

And why _did_ she feel this weak? It was so frustrating, how her arms felt leaden and her head rang. All of this, the side effect of a small trick of vision? The idea didn’t feel right.

_Climb or retreat. Make a choice._

She knew whoever had put up the wall was on this side. So if she wanted a better chance at not getting caught, she’d need to be on the other side.

Still clutching the knife hard in her right hand, she stared at her left. _It’d certainly be useful if that ‘move as shadow’ business would go ahead and kick in._ She tried to concentrate, tried to will herself to be something else, but she heard too much blood in her ears. For a moment she thought the edges of her hand blurred, fluttering like smoke, as cold shot up her arm, startling her. Just as quick as she’d noticed it, it was gone. And the nausea was back. She couldn’t concentrate like this.

No. She’d just have to grit her teeth and climb.

Her silken slippers, while easy to maneuver in, weren’t particularly sturdy. After her first two attempts to pull herself up resulted in a stabbed palm and a long scratch on one arm, she stepped back. This wasn’t going to be easy, then. That was fine. She could handle a challenge.

She retreated to her former hiding spot, pushing her skirt under her as she knelt in the gravel, sweeping off her cloak. As quietly as she could manage, she cut long strips from the fabric. Each palm was wrapped, as were her feet. When she returned to the blockade, she viewed it with a critical eye, picking out her route. She didn’t have time to waste. With a surge of determination she pushed down her nausea and made smooth precise nicks at the softer wood, carving away thorns where she could. The rest she’d just have try to avoid.

Swallowing hard, Emily let herself take one last long breath before starting her climb.

She hated climbing in dresses. Multiple times she had to reseat a foothold when her gown got caught under it, and by the time she was five feet up fabric trailed in ragged strips where thorns had caught the skirt. While the lack of sleeves was a blessing for not getting her arms caught on anything, there was little to protect her skin from the scratching and stinging of burrs and nettles and thorns. Emily clenched her jaw, breathing hard through her nose as she tried to move as quietly as possible. She ignored the blood that slid slowly down her arm, pulling herself up once more. She was nearly over the top. Maybe she could jump from there. It was only ten feet. Even with jagged gravel to land on, if she came down with the right form she should be fine.

One more foot, and she was able to rest her elbows on the top of the natural - well, somewhat natural - barricade. At this height, she could see the top edges of most of the rest of the winding hedge rows that formed the maze. She spotted two more fresh walls of boughs that had now interrupted the circuitous paths. If only she could spot who it was that had erected them, she might have an idea of what she needed to avoid. She shifted, twisting - maybe from here she’d have a better view of the palace--

She spotted the figure in the window just as a piercing whistle split the air. The sound hurt her head, but she was more worried about the movement at the terrace entrance. Something was coming out, and she didn’t want to learn what. Hurriedly she turned back to her task, wincing as thorns stabbed at shins that didn’t have time to be cautious. But her rush felt worth it as she crested the wall. She settled herself at the edge and took just an extra half second to poise and aim-

A sharp hiss of air left through clenched teeth as her cheek hit the gravel, bones jarring as her legs tangled like a rag doll. She’d gotten her arms up a bit, but she felt the rough hatching of skinned elbows as well as her face as she kicked and ripped herself free. Damned dress. Her vision was starting to pitch and yaw as she struggled to her feet. _Keep moving._ Where could she even go? She remembered squeezing through a spot at the edge of the maze when she was younger, but she doubted she’d still fit as an adult. Still, it was better than nothing.

A single step and she winced, shaking out her leg at the twinge of pain that meant she’d probably twisted her ankle. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t broken. It wasn’t debilitating.

Whatever had exited the castle had made it to the maze now, she could hear feet on gravel-- a single cruelly giddy laugh made her shudder.

“Ooh, a hunt! How exciting!”

The voice had none of the overwhelming otherworldly echoes of the stranger in the forest. It sounded at least mostly human, if slightly mad. More voices responded with laughter. They sounded drunk, maybe. Or somehow intoxicated - something that had them disconnected from reality, though she heard nothing like stumbling.

“Come now, queenie, we have a present for you-” One of them was calling, mocking, and another giggled.

“Bring down the wall.” Those words weren’t directed at her but someone else. Emily heard more cracking and shifting behind her as she stumbled on.

_One left turn, skip an exit, a right, then another left._

She drew out the knife again as she pushed herself onward, trying to focus on the route she needed instead of way her bones seemed to creak.

“Should we call for the barghest?”

The suggestion was met with a derisive laugh. “Unnecessary. She bleeds.”

Emily glanced down, and realized that, indeed, a few drops of blood flowed intermittently from her wounds. Marking her path. Making her an easy target.

She loosed the bindings on her hands and quickly wrapped the messiest bits, teeth digging into her lip and curses filling her head as she inadvertently scraped another small stinging welt with the knife as she worked, though luckily no blood was drawn. There was nothing she could do for the scratches on her legs, except hope the evidence might be soaked up by what remained of the traitorous gown.

The worst part was, there were no rushing footsteps, no feet pounding gravel. They weren’t even _chasing_ her, so confident were they that she was done for.

“Such a sad sparrow with a broken wing… Nowhere to fly…”

Her words were whispered between gritted teeth, angry and desperate, as she made another turn and then another: “You said a day. Give me a day. _Don’t let me die._ ”

“You’re just making it worse, Your Majesty. We can help you. We can heal you. Why fight when it hurts so much?” The voices were louder now, footsteps closer. She’d picked out at least three distinct voices, all female.

“ _Where is that goddamned power you promised-_ ”

“Don’t you want to join father dearest?”

She staggered. They had Corvo? He was the strongest person she knew, the cleverest - for all the destruction at the palace, she’d just assumed he’d escaped. She’d assumed _most_ of the guests had escaped. No bodies had littered the terrace, no blood - at least, she hadn’t seen any - there was no reason to think he’d been in danger. _Except the scream._ It wasn’t a man’s scream that she’d heard, so it wasn’t Corvo. ...But they had him.

The footsteps were even closer now. They would round the corner, they would see her - “ _Please-_ ” She tried to focus all she could on sending out the plea, her vision fading into splotches of color, begging the darkness, praying he’d give her whatever it was she needed to turn on her foes and destroy them. Or just escape. At this point, that would be enough. The fear she’d tried to push down was quickly falling upon her.

She could hardly see as hands grabbed her arm. She struck out blindly with the knife, and they retreated for a moment, letting Emily blink to try to clear her vision. Three women. One of them shifted in her sight between a young beauty and something else - sharp teeth and claws and eyes like a rat - and the flickering change only made Emily sicker.

“Why aren’t we just killing her?”

“Shh, you know she wants the girl alive.”

Emily tried to focus on who said what, but the other two looked so similar - dark hair, dark lips, decked in flowers the color of stale wine.

“You’re injured, Your Majesty.” The nice one - the wicked laughing one, the one who shifted - edged closer, and Emily brandished the knife again. “Come with us - we will heal your wounds.”

The shifting -- she was fae. Fae couldn’t lie. But why would they heal her, after their farce of a hunt?

The next voice was the serious one - the one who’d ordered the wall down. “Walk or be dragged.”

She swayed on her feet, and closed her eyes for a moment, sending one last prayer out to the forest--

The knife was wrenched from her hand, tossed to the ground. Emily stumbled, blinking to clear her eyes from the spots that threatened to blind her, and felt hands wrapping around her upper arms, jostling her back the way she’d come. She let her legs buckle, falling to the ground as dead weight. She would never make things easy.

“ _Walk or be dragged,_ ” the woman repeated, sounding annoyed.

Emily looked up, her sudden lack of movement letting her head settle and vision clear for just a moment. They looked so wild. All wore clothes for movement. The only one wearing a skirt was the fae woman, and hers was more decorative than functional, some kind of animal hide. They were dressed to move, and Emily was not. She spotted knives on the belts of the two humans. If she let them take her - if she walked on their level, if she wasn’t dragged over the stones - she might be able to take one. It looked long enough to pierce a heart if she found the right spot on her first try. She could take down at least one of them. Maybe the fae. She was probably the biggest threat.

The woman who was scowling now rolled her eyes, turning her back. “Just drag her.”

The other two shifted their holds, but Emily pulled against them. She grit her teeth, once more forcing away the pain, the nausea. Her voice was clipped, but free of fear. She may not be wearing her crown, she may have been hunted in her own home, but she was still a queen. And her words were firm. “I’ll walk.”

* * *

Emily felt her head pounding and breath shallow even as she held her head high, irritated but not altogether ungrateful for the unyielding holds of the women who guided her back to the royal palace. Her legs were trembling. Had she been asked to walk on her own, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay as composed.

At first the shifting of the fae woman had made her dizzy, but Emily found that if the adjusted the way she saw - or maybe the way she thought - she could stop the constant change, instead leaving a slight blue cast around the woman in her human guise. If only she could acquire the other promised abilities as quickly as she grasped the True Sight.

The fae woman made a soft tutting noise, running a light touch over the raw skin of Emily’s cheek and making her flinch. “Poor girl.” Her cooed pity was unsettling. “Would you like me to fix it for you?”

Emily didn’t respond. She’d made enough faerie bargains for the day. She was still bitter at being left to fend for herself, nauseated and weak, when she was supposed to have been gifted with power. Worse, the woman gave off an aura that drew Emily to her even as she felt repulsed. It was best to hold her tongue. ...And, apparently, her consent didn’t matter, as she felt a soft tickle as flesh wove together again, her cheek left reddened but healed.

Exiting the maze, she found a few newcomers loitering on the terrace, most occupied among themselves drinking and laughing and staring, their eyes glowing in the hellish light of the bonfire. She tensed at the snapping bark of a hound from across the open space. Nothing implied it was anything more than a particularly vicious dog - not the barghest the women had spoken of - but its rumbling growl didn’t reassure her. Neither did the smirk on the face of the woman sinking a hand into the dog’s fur.

They were all women - young women - at least, all she’d seen thus far. They reminded her too much of her imprisonment during the plague. And nearly all of them had some touch of light on them. Enchanted? Were they being controlled somehow? If Emily could break whatever magic held them, perhaps she could weaken their ranks and escape.

Almost at the entrance back into the great hall she spotted a woman lounging, tipped back in a chair that leaned perilously against a stone column. As she watched, the woman lifted a hand thoughtlessly, and a vine that had wrapped the column curled down to her, blooming in the course of seconds. And it was done so carelessly, so casually…

_Witches._

Making a decision, she jerked as though she might break from her captors’ hold, and was unsurprised when they tightened their grip. But she’d done what she intended. And as they crossed the threshold into the hall, she threw her shoulder into the human on her right, knocking all three of them into a jumble, and her newly positioned hand was in just the right spot to lift the blade from the woman’s belt. She shouldn’t use it here - not while she was surrounded - but if they ever had her somewhere more secluded she’d at least have a weapon. In the confusion she tucked the knife into her pocket and winced as the tip poked through the slightest bit, nicking her leg, and spilling a tiny stream of salt as well.

Once they’d forced her into their hold again - head once more held high - she finally glanced around the room. Much of the food from the feast had survived, it seemed, strewn over tables where witches propped their feet, played cards - something was on fire on one table. Vines that hadn’t been there earlier in the day had begun a slow creep through windows and doorways. Emily spotted a couple more fae in the room, though every single person had some touch of magic on them. At the dais - in _her_ seat, the throne made for _her_ to sit in - was an unfamiliar woman. A face cut like stone, all sharp angles and facets, she draped herself across the arms of the throne lazily, one hand buried in the black fur of a dog the size of a bear, the other dangling one of Emily’s crowns from a finger.

Emily kept her expression carefully cool, not glaring even as every inch of her seared with rage at the destruction and disrespect shown to her castle - to her _kingdom_. Her stare was level, almost aloof, chin raised as the witches brought her before the sharp-faced woman, each of them giving the smallest of bows, the fae grinning as she did so. Only once did her gaze dart to the creature beside the throne -- to its red eyes and eerily calm demeanor. No growling, no sniffing - just a steady stare and a thin line of saliva trailing from its unmoving muzzle.

“My darling niece.” The woman spoke with a lofty air, though acid wove through her words, cocking her head at Emily as her lips curled in a sneer. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

Emily refused to react. Niece? She had no aunts or uncles -- her father’s sister had died years ago in another kingdom, and her mother was an only child.

The lack of response had the intended effect - the woman shifted from her position, looking irked as she sat up in the throne. “You’ve been demoted, I’m afraid.” Emily could sense how she overcompensated with even more arrogance. Good. She wanted this witch unsettled. “But if you’re very good I might let you stay in the palace.”

Emily’s eyes locked with the witch. “I’d rather not.”

A hand clenched into a fist and the high table cracked down the center, ripping apart to leave a clear path to the throne. Emily’s knees locked, even as the sound made her stomach jolt. The woman - the usurper - stood with a forced calm, stepping to the edge of the short steps leading to the dais. Now that the way was clear, Emily could see a small pile of her tiaras beside the throne, most somehow warped or broken. “You do not show the proper respect for your queen.”

“You aren’t a proper queen.”

She spotted the twitch of muscle in the witch’s jaw. “ _I_ am Delilah Kaldwin. My father was Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin and _I_ have more right to reign that _you_ ever did.” That sneer returned. “Now bow.”

Was it true? Emily had difficulty believing it. She kept her stare cold and clear and ever steady.

“I said _bow_.”

One of her captors dug a hand into Emily’s hair, scratching at her skull and trying to push her head down for her, but Emily grit her teeth, adamantly pushing back, refusing. A swift kick, though, and she was brought to her knees. Her head spun, the sickness she’d been trying to push back making her hands tremble as she stopped herself from sprawling flat on the ground.

She heard a crack and shift, and the stone by her sides hummed, jagged lines spiderwebbing across them until roots wormed their way through. Emily watched them uneasily, wondering if now was the time to pull out the knife, sitting up onto her thighs to draw herself away from the creeping plants.

Delilah had stepped forward, off the dais. As she placed a hand on Emily’s head Emily realized she wore some kind of sharpened rings. Two iron claws that lengthened her middle and pointer fingers to fine tips that now dug into the back of Emily’s skull as Delilah cocked her head appraisingly at the former-queen’s quickly heating glare.

“Good choice, sister,” she praised the woman who had kicked Emily down. “I think I like her better like this.”

It was getting harder for Emily to contain her anger. Never had she been manhandled in such a manner. At least not for the past ten years. Unable to let the indignity continue, she swatted the woman’s hand away. “You’ll like me best when my blade’s in your-”

Another kick to the back sent her down again, and her vision swam for a moment. The roots that had seeped through the cracks went for her wrists, catching one as she just barely pulled the other free, tucking it back behind her to avoid the grasping plant only to have her arm lifted and levered forward painfully by the witch beside her. She lifted her face to glare at Delilah, refusing to keep her eyes on the ground, even though the position made her neck ache. She wanted to curse, to threaten, to antagonize the witch, but that could only make things worse.

Delilah watched her for a long moment, her anger fading into a chilly calm. A grim and vicious smile came to her lips. “Such time spent on introductions. I very nearly neglected your birthday gift.” She raised a hand, and Emily spotted motion out of the corner of her eye. “I want her on her feet for this,” the witch commanded, and the root loosened as the fae woman pulled her other arm back, hauling Emily to her feet again.

The witch was taller than her, and for some reason that fact alone irritated Emily to no end. Her shoulders were growing sore. “Release me,” she snapped the demand to her captors.

They, of course, ignored her. But Delilah smiled disparagingly. As one root curled around Emily’s ankle, the usurper nodded and Emily’s arms were freed.

She rubbed her aching joints, glaring at her supposed aunt as another woman - shifting like a fae in a manner that forced Emily to immediately adjust her sight - walked forward with a small silver platter. Emily raised her chin as Delilah took hold of the thing.

Six perfectly identical slices of fruit lay evenly arranged on the platter. They looked much like the gilded apples from the earlier feast, but their flesh was a warmer, brassier golden color, reflective in the light of the hall. Just their smell made her mouth water.

“I was gone from this kingdom for many years. I traveled to many lands. I discovered many things.” The woman waved the platter toward Emily, and Emily pulled away. “It’s rude to turn down a gift, Emily.”

She hated the way her name sounded on the witch’s lips. Even more, she hated how tempted she was. She wasn’t stupid - she knew faerie fruit when she saw it, she’d heard enough warnings - but in person it was impossible to ignore a scent that had her licking her lips unconsciously. Her nausea dissipated at the thought of golden juice spilling down her throat.

“Take a bite.”

Her hand was halfway to the fruit before she realized what she was doing. She hesitated, watching the offending limb, commanding it to stop its movement. Eyes flicked to Delilah-- to the satisfied smirk that twisted her lips--

And she’d overturned the platter, listening to the metal ring against the stone floor, the fruit scattered on the ground. Shimmering liquid seeped from each slice, soaking into the stone.

Somehow Delilah’s look became crueler, even as Emily’s hands were once more wrestled to her sides. The witch stood silently for a moment, then spoke in a low breath, “I almost hoped you’d do that.” Emily watched warily as, with a flick of her hand, Delilah stepped back.

The woman - the fae - who’d brought the fruit forward to begin with, returned. She was smiling-- so _sweetly_ , too, with an almost affectionate warmth. Bending gracefully, she picked up a slice of the faerie fruit from the ground.

Shit. _Shit._ Emily had salt in her pockets, if she’d just spilled some of it on the platter she could have nullified the magic of the fruit. Her arms had been _free_ , why hadn’t she just--

The smiling fae brought the fruit to Emily’s face. She jerked away, wrenching at the hold on her arms, and clenched her jaw closed.

The fingers holding the delicacy dripped gold, more juice bleeding from it than seemed physically possible.

“Shhhh-” A hand tried to stroke Emily’s hair, tried to calm her, but she kicked out-- only to have her other foot pinned to the ground. Still, she struggled. Even with a hand on the back of her head, she wouldn’t open her lips until her nose was held shut, and then her teeth stayed bared as the woman pressed the slice against her mouth, metallic juice spilling down her chin and between her teeth until she snatched at the slice just to spit it back to the floor.

She spat and spat, trying to cleanse the poisonous thing from her tongue, though she felt the honey-sweet nectar coating it. It was delicious. The most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. It made her tongue tingle and her chest warm pleasantly, and she’d barely tasted it at all.

It took three people and two roots to hold her still. One of the witches had her arms, another had one hand woven through her hair to hold her head still as the other dug into the hinges of her jaw hard enough to leave bruises. And then there was the fae. Beautiful, peaceful, even as she held Emily’s nose shut and hooked that same piece of faerie fruit - because why not, who cared if a queen ate from the floor - into her mouth, two fingers pushing the pulpy mess very nearly down her throat. She tried to snap her teeth closed, or to spit the thing out again - she wanted to gag - but the witches were relentless. She pushed pulp back out of her mouth, hitting the fae’s hand and dribbling gold down her chin, but it wasn’t enough. She had to breathe, so she had to swallow. Even once she had swallowed they held her mouth closed an extra few seconds.

But those seconds didn’t feel nearly as awful.

* * *

There was no reason to suspect the stories to be false, but she didn’t realize just how true they would be. The flavor coated her tongue and slipped down her throat and made her mouth water for more immediately. Nothing could compare. The most perfectly ripened apple, peach, plum - any berry, any fruit at all - any _anything_ paled in comparison. Warmth radiated through her, all her sickness forgotten, and pure shimmering joy - lazy sunny summer afternoons and autumn nights hearthside - sank deep into her bones. It was captivating. Absolutely enchanting--

The thought made her lurch with a stifled giggle. Because she was. Enchanted, that was. And it was positively fantastic.

Gradually her whole body loosened, relaxing, and the hands closing her mouth and nose pulled away. Emily’s eyes felt heavy, covered in stardust, as she watched the beautiful faerie who’d been so kind and caring and was so _lovely_ to look at-

Dimly she recognized hands releasing her, and she let out a small sound of disappointment. She liked when they touched her. It made her skin so comfy and warm. Why did they let go? She pouted, but quickly reached for the faerie, her disappointment fading as soon as it had come - there was no room for anything but joy in her - as she pressed fingers against the woman’s too-beautiful face, a soft awe dawning on her. And her hands-

Her own hands grabbed for the faerie’s, eyes catching on the golden stains on her fingers and palm. She sucked at the empty hand, seeking nectar hungrily, as the faerie’s clean fingers cupped Emily’s own face with a smile that shined with grace and mercy and-

“They’re always so pretty like this.”

She was calling Emily pretty? Emily had to smile in response. How kind. How nice.

“So compliant.”

Emily leaned into the touch, nuzzling against the hand on her cheek, tongue lapping at the last traces of faerie fruit on the fingers she’d greedily taken into her mouth.

“And so eager to please.” Fingers tucked bedraggled hair behind the former-queen’s ears as the faerie smiled. “Such a good girl.” Even once her hand was clean of any hint of fruit, the faerie ran her finger up Emily’s neck, gathering the juice that had spilled down her chin, and Emily was grateful for it. It would’ve been such a shame to leave it there. Such a waste.

“Emily.”

Glazed eyes looked up as the faerie moved to Emily’s side, petting her hair lovingly, and she watched the woman on the steps. Everyone here was so pretty. Not the same as the lovely fae who’s hand felt so good stroking her head, but still beautiful. Like a statue.

“Kneel.”

It was so simple, so easy to obey. It felt good to obey. She sank to her knees immediately, sad to feel the faerie’s hand draw away. A flash of gold on the floor caught her eye, and she reached for it.

“Stay.”

She froze, looking to the woman with the smallest touch of worry. Emily didn’t want to disappoint her.

The curl of the woman’s lip was hauntingly beautiful - steel on stone beautiful - as she took two leisurely steps forward, placing a hand on top of Emily’s head. Iron claws dug into Emily’s skin, but she didn’t mind it. The woman’s eyes - _Delilah_ , she remembered, though she wasn’t sure how she knew - were bright and hungry. She flinched as the grip tightened, but she didn’t know why.

“Oh this is good. This is very good. I could get used to this.”

As she spoke she dragged Emily’s head side to side, and Emily’s brow furrowed in innocent confusion.

The voice was low, seemingly filled with wonder at the power in her hands. “You sweet child. You poor girl-- you love it.” Delilah shook her head, but the pitying look was lessened by the grin on her lips.

Emily hesitantly smiled up at her, unsure what the correct response was. Delilah laughed. The sound felt like knives, but it made Emily happy.

“Would you like more?” She gestured at the spilled fruit, but her grip tightened when Emily went to grab it, stopping her. “Words.”

“Yes.”

“You’re addressing a queen, Emily. How do we address royalty?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Please.”

Emily could taste the satisfaction radiating off of this queen. Even as stony blue eyes stared lovely painful daggers into her, the woman addressed the room in an authoritative but calm, even tone. “Stick her in the laundry closet when you’re done with her. I need her alive just a bit longer.”

Emily couldn’t understand the words, couldn’t grasp their meaning. She gazed up at the queen with wide, adoring, _bewildered_ eyes.

The next words were addressed to her. “Go on, pet. Eat. Enjoy yourself.”

Excitedly, Emily lunged for the nearest slice, only to be pulled up short, the grip on her hair still too tight, yanking her back, hurting her -- no, not hurting. Nothing hurt. It was fine. It was good.

“Manners.”

She was confused. It took her a moment to realize the lovely creature before her wasn’t fae. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

A contented sigh issued from the woman’s lips. The words were murmured to the air as she released Emily’s hair with a slight push, knocking her off balance: “That never gets old.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a morbid fascination with horror that comes from a loss of agency. Since first reading about faerie fruit it has appealed to me as a way to make one's skin crawl. I will say that I have many thoughts on the subject beyond just a sadistic desire to traumatize characters. But, that being said, there is some degree of trauma that comes from such an experience and it will have a lasting effect and be addressed in later chapters. Just a heads up!
> 
> Curious to know people's thoughts on this turn in the story, I'd love to hear from you in the comments. Also: does this justify an M rating or T? Because I find it on-par with some YA fiction, but then again that can get pretty dark. I'd consider it PG-13, but perhaps not?


	5. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a heads up for some self-blame and anxiety this chapter. Just a content warning.

She was hungry. She felt so empty without the taste of sunshine that had filled her with such joy, such warmth - such complete delirious contentment. She’d tried to clean it all off of her, slurping at the fabric of her dress, licking her fingers raw, but there was nothing left. But she’d been told to wait. That if she waited there would be more. So she did.

She had her chin tucked against her arm, where golden pulp had stained her what felt like _too long_ ago, sucking the flesh there until it bruised, when she heard a hiss - a soft crackle like meat on a spit - coming from the other side of the door. Emily let her head roll against the floor, lips swollen for all her effort, staring up from where she lay on her back, limbs akimbo, a mess of ripped fabric and sticky skin.

Brown eyes, wide and vacant, watched the man who entered with a curious confusion, shifting and tilting until she very nearly viewed him upside down as the door shut behind him. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. Like the kind woman who’d given her the fruit, his humanity was too perfect. “You’re glowing.” She reached a hand for him, pawing at the air like a cat, a cautious smile spreading over her face. Her words were a loud, drunken whisper. “You’re so pretty, did you know that? Did you know you’re pretty?”

She didn’t understand why he looked at her like that. He looked sad - or maybe angry - his lip curled like he was disgusted by something and her eyes widened in worry that it was _her_ , that she was doing something wrong. She rolled over, pulling herself up enough so she might crawl on bruised knees to his feet, and fumbled her way to a sitting position, hands wrapping around his leg and clutching herself to him. “I’m sorry - please don’t be angry - you’re too pretty to be angry.”

She felt him tense, saw him holding one of his wrists, the hand raw and red and shiny, as she gazed up at him with big adoring eyes.

“I’m-” His voice was strained as he spoke, but it came out even. “I’m not angry with you, Emily. But please let go.”

She sat back on her haunches, hands clasped patiently in her lap, as she cocked her head. Everyone else had liked her begging them. Had liked making her beg, like some kind of pet - but she felt loved for it. They would stroke her hair and give her fruit, for all they had her on her knees. If he didn’t want her to plead for it, he would have something else she could do instead - something else to entertain him, to make him laugh the way the witches did, their sharp laughter stabbing at her and confusing her and making her smile. “Do you-” She blushed as she words bubbled from her throat before she realized it, and she stopped herself, glancing to the floor bashfully. Despite knowing it was impolite, she still mumbled hopefully, “...Did you bring more?”

“More-?”

Her head snapped up, face lighting expectantly, and saw the realization dawn on him. He looked at her again, seeming to take all of her in now with a furrowed brow and calculating gaze.

When he spoke, she had a feeling the words weren’t directed at her, murmured so lightly into the air. “...Faerie fruit.”

They weren’t for her, she knew they weren’t, but they still made her sit up eagerly, eyes bright.

His expression grew guarded before, adopting an air of calm patience, he lowered himself to one knee so he was eye to eye with her. “Emily, I need you to answer me honestly.”

She swayed toward him, smile creeping back onto her face.

“Do you have your salt?”

Her smile faltered, then died. Confusion and a kind of childish guilt made her shift and look away as she hesitated and shook her head. She shouldn’t. She did, but she shouldn’t, she knew she shouldn’t, it was bad to have, it was dangerous, and they would be so disappointed in her and she didn’t want to disappoint them.

“Emily.” His tone was firm, warning, and she looked at him with wide eyes as she shook her head more adamantly. She wasn’t sure she could lie if she opened her mouth, so she kept it closed. He watched her for a long moment, his stare piercing straight through her in a way that made her toes tingle even as she worried. “Please don’t make me order you to do it.”

“Do what?” She shifted uneasily, avoiding his gaze.

The air in the closet fell silent, and when Emily finally looked up at him, he looked a mix of annoyance and careful consideration. His lips pursed for a brief moment before he finally spoke. “If you have salt on your person, I’d appreciate if you retrieved it yourself.”

He spoke to her like it was her choice, but she was finding it hard to comprehend what that meant. “I…” Why was he confusing her like this? She knew she shouldn’t have salt, shouldn’t eat salt, but he seemed to want her to have it? And she did have it. But she shouldn’t have it. Should she? This was too complicated.

There was a sound from the corridor, and his head snapped toward it. When he spoke, his voice was very low, eyes on the door. “Turn out your pockets.”

She sighed in relief. Something clear, easy to follow— and she did so immediately, contents spilling to the floor.

He didn’t even glance back as he commanded her again. “Eat the salt.”

“No.” She balked at the order. The one thing she couldn’t do.

“Emily-” He cut himself off as he looked back to her, her eyes wide and fearful, hands raised defensively. He took a deep breath, and when he resumed speaking it was with a purposeful calm. “Emily, we are both in danger here and you need to escape. You cannot do that in your current state. I will not drag you kicking and screaming. You need to come to your senses, and for that you need salt. Do you understand me?”

Emily hesitated. Slowly, she shook her head. When he lifted a pinch of salt from the floor, holding it out to her, she slapped his hand away. “No!” She scrambled to her feet, stepping back, knocking over a bucket in her haste, the hollow wooden sound echoing too loud in the small room.

“...You won’t do this on your own, will you.” It was less a question than a statement. Emily shook her head. “And you’ll fight me if I try to make you.” She nodded. “And that will make an awful lot of noise.” She cocked her head and shrugged slightly. He looked down at the salt in his hand, sighing. “...How needlessly complex.”

Emily looked down at her own hands, weaving her fingers together. “I’m sorry.” She wanted to be good, wanted to make people happy, and he looked so unhappy, but he was trying to get her to do things she knew were the most wrong thing she could possibly imagine in her enchanted state. It hurt her head. So she leaned back against the shelves of linens, fidgeting and looking away.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” She felt too ashamed to look him in the eye, instead watching the feet that stepped toward her. “But I will.”

There was a brief moment of surprise, senses slowed by the drug of the fruit, before she hurriedly kissed him back. She yielded so quickly to him, so happy to make someone so lovely feel good, her face tilted to his and limbs weak, lips parting at the slightest suggestion he might want more. Compliant. Terrifyingly compliant. But no sooner had his tongue swept over her lips than he pulled away.

A flicker of hurt showed in her vacant eyes, trying to lean toward him, to continue the kiss, but he held her back with a hand on each shoulder. He was watching her sharply, his lips in a grim line as he briefly glanced away to spit on the floor. It took her a moment to understand why he did so, but as she thoughtlessly licked her own lips, it clicked into place. _Salt._

Her ears roared as her mind rushed back to her, and Emily’s face drained of all color. “-Oh.” She barely managed the single syllable before she shoved him away, dropping to her knees, scrabbling for the discarded bucket and retching. Every part of her ached and trembled and her mind was a mess of hazy memories that only made her queasier.

“We need to leave, Emily.”

Her eyes were watering, but she didn’t cry. Just the sickness. She’d have time to think about her feelings later. He was right, they had to leave. She needed out.

“I can help with the nausea if you’ll let me-”

“Magic?” Her voice was hoarse as she glared at him, but his nod was impassive. “No.” She shook her head as she pulled a towel from a shelf, making an attempt to clean herself up and grimacing. “I’ll be fine. Just-- just shock.”

He didn’t argue. “Most of the witches are preoccupied - those on watch at the side entrance have been taken care of. We’ll need to exit the palace before they’re found.”

“I need weapons.” When he sent her a warning look, she glared. “If I get caught again, I need to be able to fight back.”

He seemed about to speak, but then his mouth snapped shut, jaw clenching tight, and his nod was curt.

As Emily glanced around, checking the closet for other things she might use, her eyes rested on the discarded knife, dropped to the ground along with the berries and salt. She quickly tamped down whatever that feeling was, that thought that she’d had a weapon and it had done nothing, that it had been useless in the face of her own sheer-

_Stop it._

Her limbs were stiff - sore - and she quickly gave up on trying to take stock of the state of her body. She was sick, she was sickened, and she didn’t have time to dwell on such things. _Get out. Get safe._ Over and over the words repeated in her mind, blocking out any other thought or memory.

_Get out. Get safe._

* * *

Next time - if there ever was a next time - she had a plan. Human blood had salt. She may not always have a weapon, but if they were trying to feed her she had her teeth. She’d bite herself, rip her lips or tongue open if she had to, counteract any attempt to wrest her agency away. She would never be made so mindless. Never again.

Emily balanced a knife - a new one, one taken from the barracks along with sword, crossbow, and longbow - on her finger, testing her own reflexes. She couldn’t keep it upright for long, her limbs still shaky, but the blade thudded into the dirt instead of her foot.

Their quick escape had only been paused long enough for her to slip on trousers and boots - everything else had been loaded into packs on a couple geldings that had been silenced long enough for Emily and her unexpected and unusual new companion to ride well free of the palace, in a wide arc back toward the forest. Now they sat before a small fire Emily had built without being asked, the motions well practiced and performed silently and efficiently, unthinking.

She still felt sick. A kind of bone-deep weariness that made her feel far older than she was. They hadn’t spoken a single word since exiting the castle. Her mind shifted and lurched and her mouth felt full of words she couldn’t speak. Her tongue weighed heavy and sluggish, cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and she distantly wondered if she’d ever talk again. It didn’t feel possible. There was too much.

It was only once he’d nudged her, handing over a waterskin, and she’d mechanically taken a drink that she came slightly to her senses. She watched her hands as she spoke. “I… I owe you a debt.” The words weren’t used lightly: she’d been warned the sorts of things the fae took for debts.

He was silent for a while as well, and after a moment Emily glanced up, wondering if perhaps he’d faded away into the forest without her noticing. But there he sat, a small frown on his too-beautiful lips. His too-human lips, in this form. There was still that golden glow around him, and she suspected if she adjusted her sight again she’d be once more met with the chaotic shifting mass within.

“Ten years ago Delilah Copperspoon - now fashioning herself Delilah Kaldwin - was banished to Faerie mid-ritual by a fae-touched assassin named Daud.”

Emily’s brow furrowed, the name immediately bringing back memories of the rat plague. “But if she was-”

“The ritual she was attempting was left incomplete, but with her last moments in the human realm she evoked a curse. A curse on the child she’d been targeting with her ritual. A curse that would gradually drain the life - the youth - of the child, to feed into Delilah’s own lust for power and immortality.” Fingers twisted in the air, coaxed a shape from the earth, the small figure dancing in the light of the flames. Featureless but small, the figure clamored over the unburned edges of the fire, and as a vague Delilah-shaped figure appeared in the flames, Emily realized the figure must be the child that the faerie spoke of. As a talon of flame reached for the child, smoke began to char the edges of his limbs, the figure stumbling and swaying.

“As his child fell suddenly and mysteriously ill, the father sought out a faerie he might bargain with. A halt of the curse, for a price.” Another figure had appeared, taller, stepping in front of his son, the flames of the witch licking up a shield instead of its targets. “The father, who had already made a deal with the fae, one he’d never intended to fully pay, jumped at the opportunity. But the faerie knew better.” Delilah and the adult figure faded, leaving just the child, barely singed. “The price was paid, the curse halted, but with a single stipulation: if the child ever sealed a bargain of its own, the contract would be voided. The curse would return, though the price paid would not. The father took one promise from the fae as well: that the faerie would never initiate a conversation with the child. That any and all discussions would only begin at the child’s wish.”

“Ever cautious, the father built high walls, never allowing his child to wander for fear of an encounter with the fae.” With a soft twirl of the man’s finger, the figure spun, drawing in on itself, tightening and thinning and spindling up only to blossom outward, taking a more adult form. A female form. “And he did well. For ten years.”

It didn’t take long for Emily to understand him. Even once she did, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry. She would have been, would have been furious that she’d been tempted, tricked, coaxed out and manipulated into making a contract, rendering her father’s years of careful warnings completely useless. She would have been angry, but all she felt was despair. Cursed. It was tangible, she felt it eating at her, draining her in every instant. Her face had gone white, and she stared into the flames again, at the brief suggestion of a shape.

“How long do I have?”

He shook his head. “You claim to owe me a debt. I offer a chance for you to repay it. One more contract.”

The brown eyes that glanced to him were weary, skeptical.

“I request your service. In return I will lift the curse again. I will lift it - and maintain the gift of power - until such a time that you destroy the witch, effectively ending the curse yourself.”

She frowned. “My service? And what exactly does that entail?” No mindless obedience. No more.

A nod. “I need the witch silenced. Ideally killed, though cutting out her tongue may serve just as well.”

That was… odd. “But that would be my goal as well.”

Another nod. “A seemingly perfect contract.”

Emily shook her head. “It’s too clean. What about the rest of the time? ‘Service’ can mean a lot of things.” But her mind was whirring back to life, a new vigor gradually returning to her bones, years of practice automatically forcing an analytical view of the bargain.

Pale lips curved into a wry smile as those eyes shifted back to their natural - _unnatural_ \- black and gold, no longer attempting to seem anything near human. “I assure you, the intention of this bargain is not to get you into my bed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She might have blushed, if the words hadn’t been truly reassuring. Looking back to her hands she found they were still shaking, and at this point she was fairly sure it was no longer shock. Her head still pounded. “...How long do I have?” she repeated.

He shifted, looking out toward the edge of the forest with a distant interest even as he spoke to her. “I have no way of knowing. It was cast when you were ten, now you are twenty; I imagine that may affect the time it will take to thoroughly drain you of vitality. What may have taken weeks before may now take months. What may have taken days may now be weeks. My best estimate is less than a year. If an alternate assumption may be made, that she steals from the end of your life backward, assuming an 80 year life span, that’s 60 years, so perhaps six months, perhaps ten. If she was able to adjust the cast while in Faerie, it may be exponentially shorter or longer, depending on how synchronized our time is at the moment. At the lowest end, I might hazard to guess… ten days? Twenty?”

 _Days?_ Days at worst. At best, months. And that whole time...

“Regardless, I can only guess at the pain and sickness that will cause.”

The rolling feeling in her gut reinforced his point. “...And… and my service… would only be until she’s dead?”

“Once the witch has been permanently neutralized - however you see fit - your service will end. If you do not kill her, or find a way to reverse the spell, the curse will return.”

Emily chewed the inside of her cheek. She wanted the woman dead, and had no qualms about making that happen. But she felt uneasy, promising obedience. “Can you-” she hesitated for a moment. “You gave me True Sight… is there any way to give me an immunity to- to things like…  like the fruit?” Her words were halting, and she was avoiding looking at him. Memories whirled in her head, and they made her sick.

There was no answer, and when she did finally glance at him she found he had a hand in the dirt, staring intently toward the forest’s edge.

“What are you-” But she saw it, in that way that wasn’t quite seeing. A faint green light that twined and spiraled and spread beneath the earth from the palm of his hand. The path faded after a few feet but she knew it must go onward, weaving in with the trees and the flowers and the grass, every root a conduit for this strange magic.

His brow had furrowed slightly, but then he looked back to her. “There are other ways you might resist enchantment like faerie fruit. Salt, for one. And simple practice. Will is a muscle that can be exercised, resistance a skill that may be improved.”

For a second she was confused, distracted by the light in the earth, but then the words registered. “Oh.” A tiny pinprick of hope jabbed at her chest.

The fae--

“What’s your name?” Her words were asked with curiosity, but as he pulled back - showing the first real negative reaction she’d seen from him since leaving the castle - she realized what she’d asked. Fae names were power. “I mean - what should I call you?”

He seemed withdrawn, a bit stiff as he shrugged. “Call me what you will.” His tone was pointedly clipped. “I’ve been referred to many ways. A watcher, an outsider - a spirit of the forest itself.”

Emily nodded warily, feeling like she’d somehow crossed a line. She watched him from the corner of her eye, trying not to stare as he looked away again, always looking back toward the castle. With his attention elsewhere, she let her eyes wander. He was dressed as a human, no thorns or claws in sight, but the space around him seemed somehow more alive. The log he sat on looked to have sprouted moss since he’d taken a seat, and clover had sprung up around his feet. He had withdrawn his hand from the soil and now brushed it clean. She blanched at the sight of raw, reddened skin on his other hand, and reached for it before she could stop herself.

“What-” She dropped his hand almost as soon as she’d taken it, wrapping her arms around herself instead. “What happened to your-” But she soon realized exactly what had happened.

His lips had lifted to a sardonic smirk when she’d pulled away, and he glanced to the injured hand. “As I said: your father did very well protecting you.” His tone was wry as he held the hand toward her, palm up so she might see the blistering welts. “Quite the fondness for iron door handles.”

Cautiously Emily freed one of her own hands, cupping his from behind, careful to avoid the damaged skin. His expression was impassive, but he didn’t pull away, so she turned toward him fully, bringing her other hand to his as well. It shifted as she did, glamour melting away to reveal charcoal skin marred by white ash and cinders, the welts now like embers in his flesh. It was fascinating, and Emily found herself examining the alien hand. Starting with the obsidian claws, she ran her curious touch over them, pressing the pads of her fingers against their points, not quite hard enough to pierce skin. She shuddered, adjusting her posture as she warily traced her touch down the talons toward his palm, missing the shiver that seemed to pass over him as well.

The word came to her lips before she realized she was saying it. “Does.” The thought was only half-formed in her mind even as she spoke it. She brought his hand to her face and blew a gentle breath across his palm, sending a few bits of ash flying and drifting in airy spirals - the most unorthodox way she’d ever attempted to clean a wound. Gradually the words sank in as she murmured them. “He _does_ very well.” There was a moment of hesitation before something clicked and her focus sharpened as she dropped his hand. “I left him-- I can’t believe I just _left_ him there-” Her words were tight, almost choking on the realization, and she lurched to her feet only to stumble as her head spun from the sudden change of altitude.

Turning the way he’d been staring, back toward the castle, her hands balled into fists. “After everything he’s done - all he’s sacrificed for me - and I just _abandoned_ him to run off with-” She stopped herself before she might insult the faerie, but felt guilt settling like stones in her stomach. Locking her knees against the wave of weakness that washed over her, Emily’s jaw tightened. “I need to go back for him.”

The fae - the outsider - watched her with an almost detached interest, having withdrawn once she’d dropped his hand. “I would both suggest and request you do no such thing tonight.”

Warm eyes, lit with a spark of desperation, hovered on him for a moment, cautious. “Why?”

His stare was so even, it was very nearly chilling. “Like most of your guests, your father has been… I suppose the most appropriate word may be ‘taken.’ Turned to stone, stored in the throne room of the royal palace. While not precisely _safe_ , he is in no immediate danger. Delilah seems unlikely to do more than display him at the moment, perhaps thaw him from the spell under enchantment. No worse than you’ve already endured.”

 _No worse…_ Emily wasn’t sure if it was the curse or something else that made her sway on her feet, feeling a sudden yawning void in her chest. She blinked in surprise at the overwhelming rush of- of _something_ that made her want to collapse right there and then and simply cease thinking for a few hours. She shifted her blank stare to the fire, shakily lowering herself to her seat on the log again.

The outsider watched her with that same steady gaze. “...My offer still stands. And will stand, until such a time as you choose to take it, or the witch is dead.” He paused for a moment, and she wondered if he regretted his next words. “Or you are dead.”

Emily’s elbows rested on her knees, hands clasped together, covering her mouth. She shook her head, letting herself focus on the snapping of sparks in the blaze. “I don’t know.” Her mind was too full - or too empty - or just too much of something, like a constant mess of tangled strings and buzzing flies in her head. “I need some time to-”

His head snapped back to the way he’d been looking before, but he didn’t jump. It was as though he’d been expecting something - something she couldn’t see or hear or sense, even with her new True Sight. In a fraction of an instant he seemed to disappear, melting into smoke that swept beyond the circle of their fire until it merged with the shadows.

She stared after him for a moment. He’d be back. Or she assumed he would, if he intended to offer the deal again. In the meantime, she gave herself a moment to sit before gradually pulling herself up on weary legs. It was time to put her briefly-trained survival skills to the test and build herself a camp for the night.

* * *

Her supplies weren’t exactly ideal, grabbed rather hastily in her escape, but Emily made do. She could focus on future plans in the morning - where she was going, how she’d feed herself, defend herself. Morning was only a few hours away, if she woke at the crack of dawn. She needed rest and she needed to stay warm as autumn shifted to its second half. With the dry chill in the air she hadn’t bothered using her quickly waning energy for building a full shelter, instead setting up a makeshift bedroll between log and fire, where she now lay staring at the leaves that blocked her view of the sky.

She’d pulled a shirt on over her dress before she’d laid down, but now she regretted it. There was barely anything left of the bottom half of the garment, a few scraps of skirt that had been easily replaced with trousers, but the beaded bodice still clung to her ribs. She tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the fact that it was another layer to protect her from the cold, but in the empty night her mind only got louder and she felt restrained by it - trapped in boning and fine fabrics. She shifted onto her side, putting her back to the flames.

Sticky. She felt sticky. Like the juice of the fruit had made her skin tacky, itching -- her breath grew shallow as the thoughts flooded into her head, her pulse quickening. Fingers tensed and she shifted again- _stuck_ , she was _stuck_ in it and it was _stuck_ on her and- rolling over once more- she needed a bath, needed to scrub any trace of the thing off of her. Her nails dug into her thighs for a moment as she tried to think logically.

It could have been so much worse. All they hurt was her pride. She’d felt humiliated and used, but it could have been so much worse. It was just her mind that was violated.

Her knees slowly curled inward. Slipping her arms around herself, she wanted to cling to that fact as a positive, but she couldn’t. Her mind- her _will_ \--

Her chest ached hollowly remembering how good it had felt to be so thoughtless, so eager; to enjoy the jeers and mocking praise of the witches as she crawled and begged and-- And she’d _smiled_ through it all- how could she have _smiled?-_

She wasn’t sure when she’d brought her hands to her face, but she was rubbing at her mouth, her cheeks, her chin-- the ache of bruises on her jaw was almost comforting, knowing she’d fought, as she pressed her palm against her lips, nails digging into her cheek as her other hand covered the first. She wasn’t sure what she was stopping from coming out of her mouth - what words, what thoughts, what bile - but she thought she must need to stop it. She breathed heavily through her nose, trying to calm herself. Too tight. Everything was too close and too tight and she still _felt_ it and she wanted it _off_ -

Thrashing free of her blanket, Emily fumbled out of her shirt before scrabbling at the remains of dress beneath. Ignoring trying to undo the buttons at her back she just tore at the thing, feeling the slightest trickle of satisfaction at the ripping noise as she pulled at the seams, popping thread free and yanking boning from their channels, clawing at the panels until they split. Even once she’d freed herself she ripped and tore at the thing, shredding it, mutilating it, the sounds cutting through the throbbing repetition - _get it off get it off get it off_ \- that filled her mind.

The solid pain of effort as she ripped the fabric again and again with her bare hands was cathartic. The whole storm of sudden chaotic energy was channeled through sheer destruction as her hands wrenched at scraps that were harder and harder to tear. Harder and harder to see.

Breathing heavily, she let herself focus on the sharp throb in her fingers, the burn from the friction of her fabric carnage. Her head pounded again. The rush of energy drained, leaving her shaking, eyes stinging as she rubbed knuckles across them, clearing her vision of tears. Steadily her panting slowed. It was cold. She reached for the discarded shirt and slowly pulled it back over her naked torso, half numb, distantly glad that she’d grabbed one of the larger sizes that gave her some breathing room.

She stared at the fire again, slowly burning lower. When her gaze wandered, she found herself reaching for the remnants of her gown, feeding it piece by piece into the embers.

As the fabric curled and glowed and was eaten away by the flames, Emily’s mouth felt sealed again.

She would make them burn. She would kill every last witch who’d dared to invade her home. She would gut them, choke them, tear limbs from sockets if she got the chance. Not one of them was safe. And Delilah… Delilah would suffer. She would-

Emily’s head lifted at the sound of barking from afar, and some kind of snapping and growling and yelping. The barghest. The dogs. If they were out here, if they had hounds… There wasn’t much she could do, she was far too tired to try to run. But if there were witches searching for her… at least she could make herself harder to spot.

With a last wistful look at the fire she let out a soft sigh. Then, gradually, she smothered the flames.

It took a moment for her eyes adjust to the combination of moonlight that filtered through trees and the specks of light that were only visible in her modified vision. Shifting once more, she settled under the blanket, her back pressed to the log behind her, already missing the heat.

She tried to let her mind stay blank, tried to think only of light on leaves, but it was difficult. Her eyelids were too heavy, but each blink threatened memories she didn’t want to recall.

If they did catch her? If their hounds tracked her through the forest? She knew they wouldn’t kill her. Delilah wanted her alive - perhaps only to torment as the curse funneled her life into the witch, but alive.

_Alive, but how lucid?_

Ten days. Ten months. How long could Delilah keep her in a fog of compliance? How many days would she smile stupidly and obey and worship the sickening creature that had stolen her kingdom?

Once more she found herself drawing her knees to her chest, pulling the blanket around her for more than just the chill of the night air.

She had done _nothing_. A weapon at her side and she hadn’t bothered to raise it. She’d _wanted_ to eat it. She’d known not to but still she’d _wanted_. And the taste still tempted her. For all she could pretend it was too sweet, a disgusting rotten thing, Emily had no doubt that just the scent of it would still be hard to resist.

_“You poor girl-- you love it.”_

She shifted again, staring up into the canopy of trees if only to keep herself from closing her eyes. She _had_ loved it. But she hadn’t been herself, hadn’t been in her right mind. Something had crawled inside and puppeted her and changed- changed _everything_ about her. Changed _who she was_. Her face burned, remembering the feeling of stone on her tongue- no, not _her_ tongue. That person wasn’t her. That creature that had been so desperate for approval, for any treat they’d tossed her way, even if she’d have to crawl, to lick any scrap from beneath their boots--

She swallowed hard, wiping away the tears that threatened to spill into her ears.

She didn’t want to remember. If only she could be unaware of that time, hours of pathetic loving mindless idiocy. It was _terrifying_. Was it a blessing that her... her _self_ , for lack of a better word, had been absent, rather than sitting in the back of her mind, watching the events unfold? If they’d kept it up, kept feeding her, kept drugging her... She may have lived the rest of her life unconscious of a body that laughed and smiled and enjoyed every torture they’d inflict on her. Practically dead from the moment her body became something other than her own. And how long would they keep to minor humiliations? How long before bruised knees became welts - cuts - _they could have done anything_. She’d been utterly powerless. And worse: she’d had no desire to fight it.

There was a snapping of twigs not ten feet away. When no growl, no shout of warning came, Emily tentatively sat up, blinking as the tears fell, unfogging her vision. She wouldn’t have seen him, had the halo of her Sight not silhouetted the beast. And had it not, she may have assumed the creature of shadow was the barghest - massive, a pitch-black dog nearly the size of a bear - but that glow was becoming recognizable: the fae. The Outsider. She wanted to feel ashamed, but she just felt blank as she wiped her face on her sleeve. When it made no move - no step toward or away, no sudden shift of form - she just looked away, slowly settling into her blanket again, rolling over to put her back to him.

Stupid. She was being stupid. A stupid human, a stupid queen-- a stupid girl. Even her ears felt flushed as she suddenly recalled those first moments after he’d arrived in the castle. How she’d latched onto him like some pathetic creature, begging for more of the monstrous fruit, apologizing for nothing, willing to do anything he’d ask of her.

_“You have nothing to apologize for… But I will.”_

She flinched as she heard the padding of massive paws over the earth toward her - not quite even, a stuttering gait that gave away his slight limp - and tucked her face to her chest. Curling herself even tighter, she tried not to shiver in the cold of the autumn air. It was like she could feel its eyes on her. She didn’t want to talk to him. Didn’t want to see him. Not when all she could think of was her own shame and failure and--

The beast drew closer - close enough that she could hear the rasp of breath in its throat. It circled once, then she stiffened as it lay down beside her. It - he - didn’t give her very much space, and it was something she may have felt irritated about in any other instance. But there was something comforting about laying back to back with something so big, and warm, and _soft_ , and mercifully incapable of speech.  So focused was she on her awareness of him, she didn’t notice when her tears dried up.

Gradually she released some of her tension, the stress of the day washing over her in a tide of weariness. And when her nose, knees, and toes started to feel the chill, she rolled over without a second thought, already half asleep as she buried her face in the soft fur between the creature’s shoulder blades. She barely noticed the slight tang of blood in the air as she drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah there's the rest of the background for this story. I've never actually written an AU like this before, so that was a challenge. I think it turned out okay? Let me know what you think! Always looking for more feedback.


	6. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another quick reminder that this is a WIP in the truest sense of the word. I am by no means an expert on... well, anything. So some bits and pieces are lacking in research, and I may one day (one distant day) go through and edit for accuracy. Only letting you know this because in case you notice stuff like 'huh that's a bit weird' about things I have no idea about, I can assure you that I am probably wrong and one day I'll figure that out (hopefully).

Emily woke to aching limbs, a burn in her chest and throat, and a gnawing hollowness in her stomach that nauseated her the second she tried to move. She barely got her chest over the crest of the log she slept beside before she was sick. If Delilah truly was draining her, she didn’t find it hard to believe. Hands splayed and trembling she let her chin rest on the mossy bark, eyes closed but leaking tears for all her exertion. If she’d had the energy, she might be embarrassed at her retching, but she simply didn’t.

She was so tired. It would hardly surprise her to fall back asleep even while draped over her current support. It was unusually soft as it was, thick with moss that most certainly had not been there when they’d arrived the night before. And she was grateful for it. She turned her cheek to press against the cushioned bark, her head feeling full of cotton and shot through with a sharp throbbing all at once. 

“Your Majesty.”

She ignored the voice, willing herself toward unconsciousness again. It seemed to work, the chirp of birds fading and blending into a serene soundscape that quickly swaddled her in sleep once more. She was vaguely aware of a change of atmosphere - or perhaps it was air pressure - within the camp behind her, though the feeling was lost in her disconnected awareness of the crackle of a fire at her back as well. That had probably been going for a while though, she reasoned, letting the sound mesh in with the rest of the noises that had become a lullaby.

\-----------

A soft prodding at her shoulder made her stir, but she turned away from the touch, ducking her head and shifting her legs a bit to curl against a cushion far too firm, her blanket unusually thin for the monarch. In sleep she didn’t feel like she was dying, so that was where she’d stay. Once she had to be up and working her father would check in. She’d explain she was sick, he’d get her favorite soup from the kitchens, and it would be a day of rest.

Again, something nudged her shoulder - and stayed there, hesitating and then nudging again. Reaching back to push whatever it was away, her hand met fur. Reflexively she pet the creature - a dog, she thought, though its head seemed unusually large - her fingers quickly finding that spot behind the ears that would make the castle hounds thump their feet on the ground. She felt the skin of the beast tighten, fur bristling, and it turned from her hold just as she’d turned from it. Fair enough. Back to sleep then. Warmth radiated off of the creature as it settled down beside her, the weight of it pulling her blanket snug around her legs, almost tucking her in.

\-----------

She wasn’t sure how much later it was that she woke again, shoulders far too sore from their awkward positioning, though the stiffness at least distracted her from the rest of her aches and pains. This time there was no nausea as she turned to sit up, using the log as a rest for her back instead of her front. The beast still lay beside her, watching calmly from where its head rested on crossed paws. Emily stilled as she remembered the night before. And then just perhaps half an hour ago…

Clearing her throat, her cheeks went pink. “Ah- um. Sorry. I didn’t mean… I mean- I don’t mean to treat you as a- a pet, or anything.” Though she had to admit he was _very_ soft. Emily looked into golden eyes and fidgeted slightly, but he didn’t even lift his head, let alone speak. _Could_ he speak in that form? He hadn’t tried the night before. And his silence had been thoroughly appreciated. Now, though…

She glanced down at her hands, flexing her fingers to keep from reaching to pet the creature again - an automatic reflex given the number of animals that were kept in the castle. “...It is a _bit_ odd,” she admitted.

After a moment of silence, the creature - a dog? A wolf? Something of both? - lifted its head.

Did he mean for her to continue? “Not the not touching part. That makes-” she faltered, finding her skin crawling all of a sudden with a memory she thought she’d pushed away. “-That makes a- a lot of sense, actually.” She was wringing her hands even as she looked away from him, glancing across the low fire at their grazing horses. “What with everything… I’m not particularly fond, myse-” She made no attempt to hide her surprise at the soft butting of its - no, _his_ \- nose against her palm. Hesitating, she found herself frozen, unsure. “I…” The heavy head rested across her lap, eyes closing. When she still made no move, he shifted to nudge against her hands again.

It made no sense, the relief that flooded through her. Why did such a simple gesture feel like a lifeline? Fingers gently combed through fur, not quite the same way she’d treat a pet -- this was less about giving the creature a playful treat and instead a sort of respectful gratitude. She watched fingers move through fur so dark she half expected it to dye her skin. It was soothing, the repetitive motion, taming whatever had surged awake in her with the unwanted memories. Breaths became even, calm, and a slow prickle of something warm spread through her chest. Her own eyes closed as well, her stroking practically a hypnotic pattern until she let her hands sink into the deep fur around his neck, thumbs rubbing soft circles at the base of his skull.

She’d needed that. That small connection. Something to keep her present and calm and grounded. Warm brown eyes regarded the creature with a gratitude she knew she shouldn’t voice. What a stupid rule. But if words wouldn’t do, how else could she thank him?

She only hesitated a fraction of a second before leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of the beast’s massive head - and she couldn’t resist a slight nuzzling into the thick fur of its ruff. A brief pause, silently thanking him for the warmth of it all, his fur smelling a bit too green for any animal, and then she drew away entirely, waiting for him to move so she might stand at last and get ready for the day. But before he stood, his nose angled toward one of her hands and she lifted it obligingly only to have the creature’s tongue lap gently at her skin. It wasn’t until a moment later, once he’d retreated to the other side of the fire and she’d stood to straighten her clothes, that her mind flicked briefly to the maze in the moonlight and his lips pressing against her palm.

Her brow furrowed briefly, glancing over at where the beast now stood seemingly checking in with the horses - which were unsettlingly calm despite the presence of an animal somewhere between wolf and dog. It was like a disconnect in Emily’s brain, unable to compare his actions as man versus beast. Things felt easier with him in this form - she was less flustered, felt less of a necessity to fill the empty air with chatter. But if she tried to think of his actions replacing one form with the other… Her back was turned to him as she folded away her makeshift bedroll, and she was glad for it as her cheeks flushed. She would not have been quite so comfortable if the fae had been a man laying next to her, putting his head in her lap -- kissing her hand.

The sound of a sword slipping from a sheath made her turn, only to find the fae - the Outsider, she needed to start thinking of him by some kind of name - once more in a human form, hefting the blade she’d brought for him despite his reluctance, looking at it with a slight frown as he turned his grip back and forth. A shiver ran up her spine as she watched the blade shift almost imperceptibly, a silver sheen drawn from the metal as it seemed to thin and sharpen on its own. Her eyes sparked, intrigued at the effortless way he wielded magic, as natural as breathing.

“I can stay an animal, if you’d prefer.”

Her gaze snapped from the blade to his face, but he wasn’t looking at her, still adjusting the sword to his preferences.

“My intention is not to unsettle you, Your Majesty.”

Straightening her spine, trying to hide that he did just that with his very existence, she took a few slow steps toward him. “So what exactly is your intention?” Her heart leapt to her throat as he pierced her with those golden eyes, but she met his gaze head-on. “Why are you helping me?” She wished her voice was just a bit less breathless.

The longer he stared, the faster her heart sped.

“Will you swear your service?”

Her silence seemed answer enough for him, as he put his back to her once more, now adjusting the saddle onto one of the horses.

Lips pursed in mild annoyance, Emily moved to attend her own horse, unable to resist checking his tack as she passed. She faltered in her movements. “You have blood under your nails.” Not just under his nails - it scabbed around his cuticles.

The Outsider barely reacted, continuing his task. “Yes.”

Her annoyance grew and she fought to keep from rolling her eyes. Beginning her own chores, her tone was pointed: “And why, exactly, do you have blood under your nails?”

“Because I missed it when grooming my claws last night.” The words were spoken casually, if a bit on the cold side. “I can clean them before we continue, if you wish.” Once more he met her gaze, and she fidgeted at his level stare.

“You’re being purposefully difficult,” she accused, before looking back to the job at hand.

“No more than you.”

“Me?” She scoffed, sending him a skeptical glance over the saddle she was adjusting. “What, for not signing my life away?”

“You have no good reason to hesitate, Emily.” Had she heard him this clipped before? He almost sounded irritable, impatient, though that was well-hidden under a studious indifference. “Nothing aside from your own fear.”

“You tricked my father.” When her horse shifted under her too-forceful hands she quickly readjusted, this time more gently. “You knew the curse would return if I made a deal with you, and still you sought me out.” She watched him with an accusatory glare, expecting some defense. But he didn’t speak, though his mouth had gone tight. Emily looked away, back to her work. When she spoke again, there was a touch of pleading to her voice. She just wanted answers. “...What did she do to you?” Brown eyes met gold only for a moment before he looked away. “Why do you want her dead?”

It seemed the Outsider intended to ignore her, finishing his intended task and then retreating, placing one knee on the ground and his injured palm in the dirt, working some kind of magic once more.

“It’s not like I want her alive any more than you do,” Emily pointed out.

He’d somehow drawn a small pool of water into a shallow hole in the ground that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and now scrubbed at the dried blood on his hands. “Then make the deal.”

It was her turn to refuse to answer. 

* * *

They went about their business separately, silently, and Emily realized they were getting a much later start than she’d expected. When she’d tucked in for the night she thought she would be lucky to get a few hours of sleep and wake at dawn, but by the time they mounted up it was nearly noon. The realization hit her with a quick jolt of panic as they worked their way deeper into the woods, the horses seemingly briefed on their route beforehand, and she chided herself for not thinking of it sooner. Then again, she’d never been on the run before. If she’d been in Delilah’s place there would’ve been scouts out all night with dogs, seeking out the escaped captive. By noon the next day they would’ve searched well past the point in the forest where the queen now rode.

Was the usurper just that over-confident? Had the witches been too inebriated to make the search the night before? All of her questions rose like a tide in her, and she was trying to decide what to ask and how when she felt her companion’s intent look from where he rode - almost silently - beside her. “What?” She turned her attention to the Outsider in a quick shift, growing familiar with the tight ping that shocked through her as she caught his gaze.

“I don’t understand.” He watched her with detached fascination bordering on disappointment.

Brown eyes narrowed as her lips pursed. “This is about the contract again?”

“You’re dying, Emily.” He said it so matter-of-factually. Immediately she looked away, glaring ahead, behind, down to the forest floor - anywhere but at him. “Every minute you wither away.”

“Why does my life matter so much to you?” Her tone was snippish as she tightened her hands on reins she had barely needed to touch all morning, but the question was legitimate. Based on the story he’d told her, he’d gotten her into this to begin with - or, at least, _back_ into it. He knew what he was doing when he’d offered her a bargain. When he’d kissed her. So why help her escape? Surely there were better people out there to serve as his assassin. Why her?

“It’s… complicated.”

Really? That was all he had to say? She turned her irritated gaze on him, voice flat. “Tough.”

“If you were sworn to my service I could tell you.” He was staring straight ahead, only shooting her the occasional half-glance out the corner of his eye. “As it is I can only—” He cut himself off suddenly, then shook his head, that pitch black hair rustling with the slight breeze.

“Can only what?” He had her full and far-too-focused attention now, and as she slowed her mount his slowed as well.

“…I only have so much time I can invest in you, Your Majesty.”

“What does that mean?” He’d picked up the pace, taking up the lead, and made no move to answer her demand. Well, perhaps she wasn’t part-animal, but she knew the palace horses well enough. In another instant she was at his side, stopping herself from grabbing at his tack or his sleeve. “What does that _mean_ \- you can’t just say something like that!” She tried to catch his eye, though he stared ahead seemingly unbothered. “Are you saying you’re dying too?”

“‘Too’ — so at least now you acknowledge it.” There was an edge to his voice, a bitterness she hadn’t expected.

“I wasn’t _not_ acknowledging it,” she insisted, stubbornly. Almost immediately she had to steady herself as her mount pulled up short, the Outsider crossing in front and turning to come face to face alongside her again. Again, that ping through her, like a string freshly plucked. She straightened her back, lifting her chin like a challenge. The longer he took to speak, staring at her with that slightly furrowed brow, the warmer she felt her skin grow. It increased exponentially, flooding her cheeks pink, as he lifted a hand to cup her face. For a moment she watched, pulse thudding, caught somewhere between excitement and anxiety.

Then a firm tap of fingers to her temple, and as he drew his hand away she winced. “Ow!” It was like a needle stabbing straight through her skull from where his fingers had touched. “Why—” Like a vacuum, everything she thought had subsided rushed back into her - dizziness, nausea-- her head spun and vision swam and flickered. Her body felt like jelly, limbs trembling with sudden weakness, and the words came out a whisper. “...Oh- oh no…” She swayed in her seat, finally giving up on staying upright and letting herself collapse forward as she blinked black spots from her eyes. _Just don’t fall._ It was like every symptom of the curse hit her at once, a barrage of fever and nausea and exhaustion.

“There are no strings.” She heard his voice through the haze and the sudden ringing in her ears. “Kill the witch. End the curse.”

Swallowing back bile, Emily forced herself to still. She wondered if the Outsider played any part in keeping her mount calm - it couldn’t have been easy for the creature with her shaking violently, thin pained noises at a distressingly high pitch. She grit her teeth and took several deep breaths, exerting all the willpower she had to force her body to comply. Keeping her eyes closed, head as level as she could manage, she slid from the saddle onto shaky feet and stumbled until she leaned against a tree. Something so wonderfully stable. As her world stopped spinning, she put her back to it and slid down to sit on its roots, eyes still closed, swallowing repetitively as she held off the urge to retch.

“I didn’t want to put you through this.”

“Then make it stop!” She practically sobbed the demand through her clenched jaw, and it took everything in her to turn her head and glare at the faerie, pushing down another wave of sickness. He shook his head and she wasn’t sure if it was the curse or her own anger that made her vision a wash of red. “Why not?!”

“You know how to make it stop, Emily.”

It was almost a threat, but there was something in the way he said it, some barely noticeable strain on his part, that seemed to imply it wasn’t quite an ultimatum. Still. “This is coercion.”

“No,” he shook his head, voice firm, “this morning’s respite was a gift. I did not curse you, I can only halt the effects or lower their potency.”

It was odd… There was an edge to his tone, something tense beneath the facade of immortal calm. Even as he watched her with a guarded gaze only his mount shifted almost anxiously, belying the degree of his concern. She didn’t bother responding, just glared and shook her head - a motion that too quickly had her wincing and turning to kneel, hands clutching at the ground, sure she was going to be sick. Her breath was shaky and too loud as she tried to stop her head spinning.

When he spoke again, the strain was more pronounced. For all he tried to sound calm she could feel the insistent pleading buried beneath. “ _I want to help you_.”

“ _Then help me_.” The words came out a bitter croak, her knuckles white and jaw clenched hard. There was no response. “...Fine.” Her tone was hollow. For a long moment she simply waited, centering herself, letting that initial rush leave her system - the rush of the broken dam that soon gave way to a steady flow - until it settled to a lingering discomfort. She wasn’t sure how long it was until she felt well enough to stand once more, a grim set to her lips as she leaned against the tree for support. She turned back to the horses, refusing to look at the Outsider and instead glaring at the ground.

At long last, she raised her chin and stepped back to her horse, bracing herself for a moment before climbing back into the saddle. So be it. In a way she felt a sort of bitter gratitude toward the fae. She’d proven it to herself: she didn’t _need_ his help. If she could suffer the effects of the curse and still function - for however long she had left - then his offer was a choice, not an imperative. Affixing her eyes forward again, she tried to ignore the presence of the Outsider.

They were only traveling a few (very tense) minutes before his words broke the silence.

“...And if you don’t take the deal?”

She shot him a harsh look and he met it evenly.  

“I know my side of things, but for you? What then? You cannot expect me to believe you would run.”

Her lips thinned and she glared ahead, hands tightening on her reins.

“Emily Kaldwin, you were born a queen. They took your home, your crown, your father - they took your dignity, and you would run?”  

Anger flared in her chest, the burn focusing her mind. She’d sworn to make Delilah pay. Of course she wouldn’t run. Guilt still ate at her over leaving Corvo at the witch’s mercy. She wouldn’t - she _couldn’t_ \- run from this. She was too much of a fighter.

The Outsider’s voice was quieter, as though he spoke in a dream, trying not to draw her ire. “If you would fight anyway, let it be with my aid.”

“I already have your aid,” she spat, pulling a face. _And a fat lot of good it’s done._ Where had he been _before_ she’d been taken? Had he _let_ her be taken? Just to bring her to his side? What was the connection between the fae and the witch?

Her mind was once more filling with that tide of questions as her horse slowed. She glanced back to find the Outsider had stopped. And without his magic unfolding the path they followed, she was forced to stop as well. She scowled at a face that watched her with something that now resembled distant fascination.

“...Come here.” He raised a hand, and she could see the gold light that winked at the tips of his fingers.

She bristled. “So you can make it worse?”

There was a slight lift to his lips as his face softened. “So I can make it stop.”

Scanning him over, evaluating, eyes narrowed and trying not to think of each unforgettable instance of his skin on hers, she finally seemed to make her choice. It was her turn to bring her mount alongside his, mouth an obstinate line even as she ignored the way her heart leapt to her throat when their eyes met. Her skin broke out in goosebumps, but she refused to shiver as he rested his hand against her face again, instead glaring into golden eyes like a warning. If he made it worse-

But that needling feeling was only for a fraction of a second before the relief spread through her. It took all she had to keep her eyes open, focused on his even as the anger in them cooled. Muscles that had been tense and strained relaxed, her throat no longer burned and head no longer throbbed. And now that she knew the alternative… she truly did appreciate the respite. Her mouth twitched, (perhaps illogically) irritated by her own inevitable gratitude, but she refused to look away, or to voice her thanks.

It was only as he leaned toward her that she broke eye contact, glancing aside as her pulse sped. Graceful fingers slipped through dark hair as his thumb brushed her cheekbone and she swallowed nervously just before he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, just above her eyebrow. Her dizziness in that moment was most assuredly not due to any curse. Eyelids fluttered but she refused to let the sigh escape her, slow even breaths instead filling her lungs with that eerie scent of moss and bone. His breath broke against her skin for just a moment, and she was immediately reminded of earlier that morning as fingertips stroked through her hair. Was this how it had felt for him, when she’d run her fingers through his fur? It was so… intimate. _Innocent._ But intimate.

The Outsider pulled back, and the anger in Emily’s gaze was gone, replaced by a perplexed wariness. She once more found herself having to censor her gratitude, and by the small curve of his lips it was clear he knew her struggle.

“...Another gift.” It was an observation on her part, said in place of thanks.

His irises were like liquid honey, the black smoke creeping to surround them as he put on a small smile. “A futile gesture, no doubt,” he murmured wryly, pausing before pulling his hand away and straightening himself in his own saddle.

She watched his eyes for a moment, waiting for the black to drain away again, but he seemed content to let them be. And they didn’t unsettle her quite as much as they used to.

* * *

The further they moved into the forest, the thicker the canopy became, the woods growing dark around them. “When they-” Emily choked off. “...When I was in the palace…” She tried to find the right words to express what she’d observed among the ranks of the witches. “...She’s working with the fae,” she managed finally.

“Not all of them.”  

She rolled her eyes. Well _obviously_ not all of them.

“But yes, I noticed,” the Outsider went on, though Emily noticed the small smile playing on his lips. Had he seen her little display of annoyance? She glanced away with a touch of embarrassment. “She has Annis at the very least, and there was water magic puddled about as well - maybe a kelpie or nix. Something reminded me of Mara as well, though I doubt she’d ally herself with a human.”

She was aware of kelpies and nixes and nixies, but the names he listed were unfamiliar. Still, she was glad he spoke to her as though she knew. She’d rather be assumed more knowledgeable than she was than be underestimated. “And the barghest,” she added.

“Hm.” There was a touch of satisfaction in the grim set of his lips. “Well, at least that’s been taken care of.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed. So… that was what he’d been up to the night before? The snarls in the distance, and the blood under his fingernails? “Oh.” She quickly covered her surprise. “Right.” Of course. So was that why he’d been in that form? Did that mean he could take _other_ forms? She supposed it made sense, with what she’d glimpsed in his magic.

“I suppose she could have another…”

“No,” Emily spoke with a firm confidence. “They way they talked about it -- it was the only one.”

He nodded, and it was like she could see the information being sorted away behind those odd eyes. “So at least one hag, maybe two, and likely more than one water creature. I wouldn’t be surprised if she recruited changelings to her cause as well, while in Faerie. Especially if she’s making witches.”

Emily had never heard such things spoken about so casually. It was a bit disorienting. “Her… her cause?” And _making_ witches?

She spotted the twitch in the faerie’s jaw as his gaze cooled, glaring ahead into the darkness. “Delilah is more ambitious than you may realize. She won’t be satisfied with a mortal kingdom. Whatever petty revenge was her initial intent, she has her eye on a much greater prize.”

There was a long expectant silence on her end before Emily piped up with a sidelong glance, voice flat; “...Which you’re not going to tell me.”

He shot her a small tight smile, and she felt her heart skip a beat. “Do I need to say it?”

He didn’t. She could already hear the question he hadn’t asked: _Will you swear your service?_ Until she said yes, she had a feeling there was a lot she wouldn’t know.

“It would be nice if you could just lay out what you will and won’t tell me at my current level of commitment,” she pointed out drily.

It was almost irritating the way his smirk made her stomach do somersaults, her skin going all warm and tingly. “It would be nice if you would let me save your life, but you appear to be too stubborn for such a logical arrangement.”

And she was too stubborn to acknowledge that he was right, as well. Instead, she just watched, allowing herself her fascination. Dropping back, she surreptitiously secured herself in the saddle, making sure her hold was steady, before she tried to manipulate her Sight.

It took a moment to find the balance where the light of his magic didn’t blind her, the constant shifting within didn’t block out the rest of her sight, but she was still able to see through the almost impenetrable glamour he wore. Once she did have it figured out, it was exceptionally odd to see him in the simple clothes of the castle stores. Everything else about him seemed so regal and alien - just the way he carried himself would set him apart from mortal men even when glamoured. But beyond posture… She found her gaze resting on his hands, the soot-black skin that seemed to grow its own gauntlets of bark and thorns, though she could only see some of that part not covered by sleeves. Was his hand still smoldering from the burn? She couldn’t tell from where she rode.

Gradually she shifted her stare over the rest of him until she examined his face. How could something be so youthful and so ancient all at once? His skin was disconcertingly unblemished. _And they really do have pointed ears… Bizarre._ From this angle she could barely see his irises, making his eyes appear depthless pools of ink. And his lips…

“Are you going to kiss me again?”

The words were out of her mouth before she recognized thinking them.

The Outsider turned his head to look at her, brows lifted in mild amusement, and she blinked in surprise, returning her vision to normal, but refused to look away. Even as she felt pink creep up her neck she didn’t back down. It was an innocent enough question. Or… well, it was a question. Her face was completely blank as she watched him expectantly. She refused to be ashamed of her own fleeting thought. At least… she was really trying not to. _No_ \-- she _refused_ to.

“...Is that a request?”

Ten different answers piled up on her unmoving tongue.

The smile playing upon his lips wasn’t quite as malicious as she’d expected. It was a sort of genial playful thing as he cocked his head curiously.

Had she meant to ask that? Some stubborn part of her insisted that of course she had, and there was nothing wrong with that-- but then her brow furrowed.

He’d turned away. “The fault is mine, not yours.” It was a casual assurance spoken over his shoulder, sparing her his direct attention. “I have been away from humans too long. I should have expected such a reaction.”

She eyed him warily, suddenly hyper aware of her own frail mortality. “...What do you mean?” Something inside her flinched at his flippant tone, shriveling up even as she bolstered herself with false confidence.

The look he shot her was soft - almost pitying. “Your pockets, Your Majesty. Don’t you find them oddly light?”

It took her only a moment to catch his meaning, and she balked. “I’m not - you didn’t - that wasn’t said under some _enchantment_.” Was that what he thought? Some weak-willed girl so entranced by fae beauty that she’d throw herself at him? ...She hoped that wasn’t why she’d said it. She nibbled the tip of her tongue until it split, sucking at the blood and trying to think analytically. So if her words had been drawn forth by some kind of passive enchantment… were they still her thoughts? Taking her eyes off the faerie she picked at the stitching on her horse’s tack, giving herself something else to look at.

It may have been harder to admit to herself, but her thoughts hadn’t changed: she still wanted to kiss him. But the wish was more a curiosity than a demand, something she wondered vaguely but had no intention of voicing.

So perhaps he was right.

Her lips twisted in frustration at the realization, and that familiar ping against her nerves as she caught his eyes again did nothing to lighten her mood.

The pity had faded and he watched her now with a curious consideration. She could sense him choosing words carefully, but wished she knew what calculated course he navigated in his own mind. “When we spoke last night... you requested a gift to resist enchantment.”

She made no reaction. She hadn’t forgotten.

If only she knew what he was _thinking_. A small divot had appeared on his brow, as though warring thoughts disturbed his otherwise placid conscience. He seemed so hesitant, she just wished she knew _why_.

“Would you… Would you like to practice?”

That was all? He’d hesitated so much she’d expected some grand reveal, but he was just proposing exercising her will a bit? She made no attempt to hide her surprise, though her enthusiasm was palpable. “Yes. I mean-- _yes_ , definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so like there were some parts in this that - well, I mean, not to toot my own horn but these two give me heart eyes occasionally. 
> 
> Did the beats hit? What worked? What could use more fleshing out? Let me know, I'm working on the next chapter now and may come back to edit this one again if people point out that something seems to be missing. Or, if nothing's missing, I'd still appreciate some feedback. ^^


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